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My eyes were opened, but I saw nothing. I took a deep breath. With that breath came an assault on every inch of my entire body. I cradled my stomach with my forearm. Joe had never beaten me before. Why start now?
In my moment of selfish commiseration, I remembered Kris. A light coming from the floor nearby offered me hope. If I was back in the crawl space, maybe she was too.
The shadow of a figure moved behind me. Prepared to scream, a hand, much larger and less delicate than Kris’s, clasped my mouth shut.
“Hey, it’s okay. Please don’t scream,” a male voice, soft and gentle, definitely not Joe’s, said.
“Who are you?” I asked in a hushed whisper against his palm.
“My name is Mark,” the stranger said, lowering his hand. Aware I was too injured to move, he leaned down so I could see his face. “You’re Erin, right?”
“Yeah,” I said, my voice low. The vibrations against my skull was nauseating. “Are we alone?” The thought that she was gone, that I’d failed her, made my stomach hurt more.
I wished I could pretend I was dreaming. If I were, there’d be a chance I could wake up. He nodded, solidifying the truth.
“Do you know what’s going on downstairs? Have you heard anything?” I asked.
“I heard some screams earlier, but...” Oh my God, something happened to her! “It was you. That’s what woke me. A short while later, the door opened, you were thrown in, then the door slammed shut behind you.”
“Did you see who put me in here?”
“I didn’t, sorry. I’d just barely woken up. Besides, I can’t see anything in here.”
“It’s okay. She’ll be okay. Kris is strong. She’s made it this far. She’ll be fine,” I repeated. My arms wrapped around my chest for comfort.
My mind raced with possibilities of what had happened or, worse, was happening to her. They needed her alive to keep me from attempting an escape.
They won’t hurt her, I reminded myself.
Worried thoughts rushed my mind. I’d assumed Kris and Newbie were being kept alive to keep me from trying to run, but if Joe and Doris weren’t worried about me trying to escape without taking those two strangers with me, why was I still being locked away? What if they’d decided I didn’t need two reasons to stay? They could get rid of Kris if they wanted; I’d still have to worry about Newbie. I should have considered that, but what would it have mattered anyway?
There was a lingering silence between the two of us that I had no desire to fill. My mind raced. I worried about Kris’s well-being, about me and Newbie’s chance of survival, yet the frays I’d seen were foremost in my thoughts. Instead of focusing on the tangible, I was lost in a dark fantasy world, one that made me feel closer to Betty but further away from reality. I remembered how strong and reassuring she’d been in my dream, the strength of her words recorded in the newspaper article after her husband’s death.
Remembering her was a source of strength, one I found difficult to hold onto in my most despairing moments. Only in the crawl space could my hope last. Time in there offered me a chance to recharge, to regain my longing to live, to fight for survival. If she could endure two months of the unknown while Arthur was missing, and then another eight years after he had passed away from a gruesome end, I could continue until help came.
I wondered what was happening with Mom. Why wasn’t she worried about me? Why hadn’t she come to check on me? There had to be something keeping her away. What if she was sick, in the hospital, or worse?
No, I wasn’t going there. She was fine. She’d come for me, eventually.
I looked over my right shoulder to see Newbie, sleeping. I didn’t know how he could have fallen back asleep after seeing me in my battered condition, but I was jealous of him for it. I’d begun to wonder if Doris drugged him with the other half of the sedative she’d used on me. Perhaps it hadn’t yet worn off. It didn’t matter much. With him asleep, I had time to read. I grabbed the first clipping I could reach with minimal movement. I brought it close to my eyes. While still lying on my side, I began to read.
August 29, 2005
“A person of interest has been taken into custody in connection with the serial killings that have plagued our town for over twenty-five years. The name of this person has not been released but was brought in for questioning last night by the local police department. Leaked information suggests that the person of interest is female.”
The rest of the article was missing. I found another one.
October 30, 2008
“It has been thirty years to the day since the discovery of the first murder victim of the elusive serial killer. Aside from the questioning of a possible suspect three years ago, no further details have been found in connection to the crimes. There have been no additional victims.
To some degree, many people have just forgotten about all of the terror. I can remember my father telling me stories when I was younger about a “bad man” that might live somewhere in our town. He’d warn me to stay clear of Halona creek, never talk to strangers, and never open the door when he wasn’t around. He never explained what made this man a “bad” man but, being a child, I trusted my dad and never thought to ask for an explanation.
He said all the things to me that I now say to my children, but with my kids, I’m thinking of child abductors and sexual predators preying on our youth.
Times have changed since I was a child. Newspapers and televisions are filled with stories about death and abductions. As a society, I believe we’ve become somewhat calloused to it all.
That being said, I’d still like to offer my sympathy to all of the friends and families of those who met an ugly demise at the hand of a mad man. I mean no disrespect by my comments. I cannot tell you how many times I wished this case could be wrapped up nice and neat, like some of the others I’ve covered.
I hate that this story has been moved from desk to desk, and journalist to journalist, for thirty years now, yet to be written with a final the end to the piece. The conclusion to years of waiting and the end to years of misery and fear. The end to a long, drawn-out nightmare that has kept us in a constant state of limbo. I can only hope the ending of this story will land on my desk. That I’ll be the fortunate one who gets to finish it. For now, I leave you with this: Never stop believing that good things can happen, that nightmares can end, and that, at some point, we’ll all wake up from this one. Never lose hope.”
Hope.
That article referenced it. Betty had said it in her statement after her husband’s murder. I’d felt it while in my freedom, the crawl space. But did it mean anything? Was there any worth in not giving up, or in not caving under the weight of hope that it would someday get better?
A muffled scream, voices, and footsteps heading toward my freedom said no. Hope was for outsiders, the people trying to find their missing loved ones or grappling for solace after they found them, dead. I used to have hope. Joe took it from me like sand through an hourglass, slowly but consistently until my time was almost up. Soon, all my sand would be drained.
The door opened. Its weight rattled the old hinges. “Get out. Now!” a sharp voice ordered.
My hands trembled as I shook Newbie’s shoulder. “What’s going on?” he asked sleepily.
“We have to go,” I said, my voice calm, unlike the rest of me that was anything but. Joe sounded different, and different was never good.
I held Newbie’s hand in mine and dragged myself toward the door. The unfinished wood floors scraping at my raw skin ignited a new burn. Tears begged to fall. I refused to cave to their weakness.
Newbie held my hand tightly, his fear clogging my pores. We were leaving our sanctuary, and, this time, I wasn’t confident we’d be returning.
Joe’s foot was tapping against the carpet when I stumbled out, Newbie’s hand helping to keep me from falling.
“Took you long enough,” he said to me, ignoring Newbie. His gaze dropped to our entwined fingers.
The instinct to survive made me try to tug my hand away, but Newbie refused to release me. I was surprised at his brazen act of defiance. He knew Joe wasn’t happy with us holding hands, yet he didn’t cave under Joe’s hard stare. Because of Newbie, Joe and I were coming to a pivotal point in our relationship. It seemed I had someone willing to defend me, lessen the load on my shoulders to protect someone other than myself.
It was a welcome relief cut short too soon. Joe slapped my face so hard I dropped to my knees. My hand slackened in Newbie’s, but he refused to let me go. He cupped my elbow and helped me stand.
A flush of furious frustration darkened Joe’s cheeks. His dark eyes dropped to Newbie’s hand entwined in mine. Under a heavy brow, his eyes rose, the dark brown turned into night.
The back of his hand struck the other side of my face. Newbie wrapped his arm around my back, catching me before I could fall. If Joe intended to separate Newbie’s hand from mine, it wasn’t working—Newbie refused to let me go. He was protecting me. His tender touch was endearing, warm, almost intimate as if we’d known each other our entire lives.
After so many days fighting Joe alone, I felt hopeful that I might survive, that hope wasn’t only for the outsiders but also for the ones who were almost dead.
The red in Joe’s cheeks reflected in his tar-black eyes. It was the most sinister he’d looked since arriving.
As if to see what it would take to separate Newbie and me, Joe punched me in the belly, the same spot he’d kicked me repeatedly earlier in the living room.
I doubled over. A tortured cry parted my lips. The room exploded with a bright light then faded to black. Joe and Newbie were nothing but shadows. I wrapped my free arm around my midsection. I tugged at Newbie’s hand. It was no longer comforting to know he wouldn’t let me go, that he was there to help me stand up to Joe because I was paying the price for his stubbornness, ...and it hurt.
“Why don’t you pick on someone your own size you dickless prick?” Newbie said, shocking me and further pissing Joe off.
“What did you say to me, boy?”
“Which part didn’t you hear? That you’re a little man with a tiny dick, who gets off hurting people weaker than him? Or was it knowing you couldn’t take on someone your own size? Was any of that so difficult to grasp?” I wanted to tell him to lower his voice. Every syllable was like a bullet to my brain. Newbie’s shadow stood still, his posture straight.
Joe’s shadow took a step toward Newbie. “When He was spoken to with harsh insults, He did not reply in the same way. When He was made to suffer, He did not threaten His tormentors, but instead entrusted Himself to God, whom He knew would make a righteous judgment in the matter. 1 Peter 2:23,” Joe said in an even tone.
Their shadows were taking shape. From the floor, I watched as Joe’s eyes bore into Newbie’s as if he’d won against Newbie’s defiance.
“But, as it is, you people are boasting in your arrogance, and all such boasting is evil,” Newbie said, closing the distance between himself and Joe while never letting my hand go.
That sounded like a verse from the Bible. An unease built quickly inside of me. Did Newbie know scripture, too? Was he as sick a man as Joe?
A moment, quiet of words but not of thoughts, built within the room until there was only one thing left to do. With a guttural, furious growl, Joe yanked me away from Newbie using my free hand. I slid along the hardwood floors, over the threshold, my arm extended as far as it could go. On the carpet, my body jerked against his tugs. Bending down in front of me, he lifted me with a tight grip on both of my upper arms. He held me close, guiding us toward the staircase. My feet dragged behind me. Newbie was close behind me but no longer able to hold my hand.
At the bottom of the last stair, Joe hurled Newbie into the kitchen. My aching body stayed wrapped in Joe’s arms. I fought unconsciousness, barely. I worried if I fell asleep, I might never wake up. And, for some reason, despite my many wishes to die, I’d decided I wasn’t yet ready to give up. I was either too hopeful for a rescue or too stupid to believe any help would come.
Hope had become a hurricane. Sometimes its waves were high and consuming. Other times they were low and bleak. Every moment was a new wave bringing hope, then despair, much like falling petals from a daisy in a game of “He loves me, he loves me not.” How many petals were left, and which petal would bring the end of the storm?