Hoarder (16 page)

Chapter Nineteen

Missy stood before her dresser mirror so she could inspect her good dress. The reflective surface, along with every surface in her bedroom, was sprinkled in colorful glitter. There were also smudges of make-up, dried blood, and shit on the mirror she admired herself in. She didn’t mind the mess on the mirror. It took a lot of hard work to get looking this good.

The red dress that had replaced her shopping outfit was extra tight and torn, with her sore spotted flesh bulging out of the tears. It hadn’t been this tight when she had worn it last, a few months ago (actually eight years), but she was a more voluptuous woman now, so that was to be expected. She didn’t mind the new tears in it either. So what if she showed off a little more skin? The viewing audience always wanted to see more flesh, and she hoped deep down inside her fallopian tubes that her new playmate Keith would, too.

The dress that could barely contain Missy was decorated with neglect, namely food, footprints, and skid marks. Missy didn’t see these stains, all she saw was her favorite color red behind them. All this red made her feel hot, like a Red Hots candy, and she knew all the boys liked to suck on Red Hots!

Missy loved her outfit, but her favorite accouterment was her new one. Normally she would tease out her hair, high and wide, because big hair was like a turkey’s display of pretty tail feathers; it was a way to attract a mate. But that cap she had found in the living room was so cool, with the deely bobber on the brim. She recognized it as the same cap that the crew kids in her house were wearing. If she wore on her show the same thing all the kids were wearing nowadays, maybe they’d think she was their age, too.

Missy appraised her outfit from head to toes (those were mostly covered in sneakers that had both big toes sticking out). She looked so good she turned herself on!

“Oh lookie-lookie-lee! America will love me!”

Missy gave her reflection a sultry wiggle and giggled. Her outfit was red hotsy-totsy, but she was far from done. She had to put on her face.

Missy looked at the make-up spread across her dresser. Uncapped lipstick, open rouge, empty eye shadow trays, and dripping tubes of foundation numbered in the hundreds, all generously sprinkled with glitter and rat scat. Much of the make-up was used up, but she found some of her reddest rouge, uncapped, and applied it to her cheeks to clown-like levels, using her fingers instead of an applicator or brush.

“I love to wear and eat red!” And she meant it, as she sucked the rouge off of her fingertips.

Missy picked up an uncapped lipstick she considered a beautiful (blood) red. She applied it to her lips, and much of her face around her lips. More red always looked better. The lipstick was dropped, bounced off an empty bottle of nail polish remover, and tipped over the edge of her make-up table, landing in an empty Styrofoam cup. Missy was too busy to notice little things like that, busy puckering at her reflection. She blew herself a kiss, caught it, and ate it back up messily, turning her fingertips red again.

Now that her face was all done, Missy wanted a second opinion. She looked to the side, where Dani’s body was propped up on an askew folding chair. Dani sat to the side on the chair, but her twisted head was pointed toward Missy. Dani’s head was tilted back, eyes open wide and rolled up in their sockets. A line of red ran from the lower left corner of her lips, starting to dry and draw flies, or
baby butterflies
as Missy called them.

“What do you think?” Missy asked her girlfriend. She puckered her lips with her arms over her head, posing like the old fashion pin-up model she knew she was. Dani’s response was obvious from her wide-eyed stare; she was very impressed.

“You want some, too?” Missy asked the girl that Tickles had called Sally. The girl had a bit of make-up on, a line of red lipstick streaking down from her nose and the side of her mouth, what Missy thought of as a punk rock style. But besides that, Sally seemed too pale.

Since the girl didn’t object, Missy went ahead and shared her make-up. She smeared rouge on Dani’s cheeks with her fingers first. That certainly helped the girl look more cheerful. The best thing about sharing make-up was she got to suck on her red fingertips again.

Missy looked for the lipstick. She didn’t see it on the table anywhere. That was weird, since she never misplaced anything.

A disturbing thought gnawed at the back of Missy’s mind. What if this girl had swiped her lipstick? Maybe she’d have to search the film crew when they were finished. Kids were always stealing things these days, and they liked to stash their booty in their underpants. But Missy was wise to them, and there was nowhere a curious bird like her wouldn’t peck. Including their underpants.

The girl needed some color on her lips, so Missy leaned over, took Dani’s head in her hands, and planted a big kiss on her lips, rubbing them together to get a good transfer of color. Missy considered herself a very generous person to share like that.

Missy sat back and considered her girlfriend, whose head was cocked to the side. The girl looked a lot more colorful now. Missy noticed that some of the girl’s red punk make-up had transferred to her lips, as well. Her tongue licked some of the new red to get a taste of the girl. She tasted kind of bitter.

Missy and her girlfriend were now both Red Hots, but their last piece was missing, hundreds of little pieces actually. Missy scooped up a handful of glitter from a plastic freezer bag and applied it to her face and hair. She did not shake it over her head like a soft rain; she threw it hard into her face like a snowball. A second handful of glitter was scooped up and thrown onto her girlfriend. Hopefully, Sally would thank her later for her sparkling generosity. Glitter wasn’t cheap.

Dani didn’t blink, despite getting glitter on her eyeballs.

Missy decided this special event, the filming of her premiere episode, was worth it. She grabbed a third handful of glitter and threw it at them both.

“We sparkle!”

Chapter Twenty

The situation had changed. Keith conceded failure in his original mission, but he would triumph in a new endgame. While he appreciated Ian sticking around to help, his brother’s part in this was done. Ian had to get out of Missy’s house now. He would join Ian outside once his plan had been executed along with the homeowner.

“You need to go, Ian. Through the basement.”

“No way. I’m not going back down there,” Ian responded resolutely.

The more Keith’s head cleared from his knockout in Missy’s ring, the more it was clouded by rage at his opponent. He didn’t care how much the delusional harridan harped about their lovey-dovey relationship. That crazy bitch had tried to kill him, had nearly succeeded, in fact. That made them closer than friends or lovers. Their dance with mortality would end with her death.

Keith was not selfish in his desire for murder. He was going to prevent what had happened to him, and Will, from happening to Dani and Ian. He and Will were the biggest and strongest of their group, and Missy and her hoard had bowled them over like they were nothing. He didn’t think the weaker ones stood a chance at surviving an encounter with Missy. Missy - her name was deceiving, because it played her down. She was Monsoon.

On his feet, wobbly as they were, Keith lurched to the utensils pile. He looked the record size selection over and pulled out an eight-inch butcher knife with his right hand. His left hand wasn’t grabbing anything, hanging limp at his side, the wrist swollen to twice its size and a few shades darker red.

Keith looked over the blade. It was dirty with grease, shredded meat, and rat droppings, but it was long and wide. It would do fine. The blade’s cleanliness played no part here, but its dirtiness did. Should Missy somehow survive a deep stab of this blade, infection could be the follow-up killer.

Ian didn’t like the look of the butcher knife in his brother’s hand. He knew what Keith intended it for. Ian still had to ask and hear it for himself. “What’s that for?”

“She tried to kill me. And she broke my fucking wrist.”

Ian thought that wasn’t an explanation, it was justification.

“You should protect yourself, too,” Keith added.

Ian looked at Keith’s gruesomely twisted wrist and understood they were up against a considerable foe. He also had complete confidence that should this big bully woman come after him, he would have the litheness and speed to get away from her. He didn’t think he needed a knife for himself. Keith was seriously injured though, and might not have the ability to get out of her way. He recognized he was his older brother’s protector now. A knife was a necessity and he grabbed one, although the blade he selected was smaller than his brother’s and easier for him to handle.

Ian was not surprised to find his knife dirty. Finding a clean utensil in this kitchen would be near impossible. The blade was caked with what might have been stale refried beans, or refried shit. It smelled more like the latter.

Ian looked up and saw that Keith had maneuvered to the entrance to the dining room. He started after him and shouted just loud enough for him to hear. “Wait up!”

Keith did not wait up. Instead, he sped up. “Don’t follow me.”

Ian defied his brother again, but that had been their lifelong pattern. They both expected and accepted it; it was part of their bond. Keith wanted this to be a one-man mission, but Ian knew they were in it together. They both had Dani at the forefront of their minds.

Ian picked up his pace and made up some ground on his brother. He kept looking over Keith’s shoulders, on the lookout for the beast in their midst, although that wasn’t entirely true. They were in the beast’s midst. They did not have home/hoard advantage, and that put them at a serious disadvantage. They did not intimately know the paths and corners of this hoard, nor had they built up the legs for it.

What worried Ian the most was that Keith was not trying to keep under cover. He was a walking target. Keith was already on the climb that would take them into the living room, and he might as well have a trumpet to announce his arrival. It appeared Keith intended to charge and stab on sight, and that seemed like a bad plan. This was escalating way too fast.

Ian followed at Keith’s heels up into the living room. Had Ian been in the lead, he would have slithered up the slope like a snake and peeked over the edge first, preferring to strike unannounced.

Ian stopped beside Keith on the edge of the living room, the terrible room that had taken the life of one of their closest friends. They looked around, Ian with worry, Keith with frustration. There was no sign of Missy.

Ian’s worry didn’t dissipate just because Missy wasn’t in the room. He couldn’t let his brother go through with his deadly vendetta. Keith might think it was justified, and he did too for that matter, but Ian coldly suspected that whatever trial came of this horrible fiasco they found themselves in, Keith would be prosecuted for his actions. They were clearly the victims, but they were also trespassing and wearing hoodies. The world and the juries were too frequently unfair about that. Plus, Ian had already suffered the loss, through abandonment, of his father this year. He couldn’t imagine how he or their mother could deal with Keith’s removal from their lives through imprisonment, or his mother’s grief if he were locked up as well. He was accompanying his brother on this criminal mission that was leading to a murder.

Keith located the clothing packed staircase and climbed that way. Traversing the immense and difficult room took a lot of careful maneuvering in order for Keith to not hit his broken wrist hanging uselessly at his side. He had to use the knuckles of his right hand for balance, as his fingers remained tightly clenched around the handle of the butcher knife.

Perhaps if Ian could get Keith to admit to his murder plan first, it might be harder for him to execute his plan and his target. “What are you planning to do?” Ian asked.

Keith didn’t answer. His eyes had fallen on the shrouded body of Will, who was more family than friend. The covering and pizza box over Will were dented grotesquely. Ian’s eyes saw the same thing and he shared in a moment of cruel silence. Keith could not control the fury in his voice, which bordered on breaking.

“Just head for the door and wait for me outside. I don’t want you to be a part of this.”

Ian wasn’t surprised that Keith couldn’t put his killing plan into words, and he deeply believed that Keith really wouldn’t, and couldn’t, go through with it. Keith was not the type to fight. The only two scrap matches he could remember Keith getting into were provoked by another party, and in both instances Keith had been defending others. And neither of them had ever been hunting, it had never even been a consideration for them, which was why the image of Keith the killer was such a disturbing thought. He couldn’t take Keith’s order to abandon him, since he had to stick around to protect him. The easiest way to do that would be to talk Keith out of his rage fueled revenge plot.

All of Ian’s reasons for escape went out the window, assuming a window could be found, when he remembered Dani’s scream, which had definitely been inside the house. And Keith knew it, too. So maybe they did have to search through this deadly maze for her, but they would be much safer if they proceeded in a creepy-crawl to avoid detection.

Keith got up from his grieving spot and continued his one armed climb toward the steep slope. He leaned toward a tall speaker and was about to put his knuckles against the top when he saw the entire surface was a dumping ground for cat shit. His knuckles caught the side of the speaker for support. As he moved past it, he realized his shattered nose did have one special benefit. He couldn’t smell the cat shit, or any of the noxious smells inside Missy’s house anymore. That or he was just getting used to the stench, which was a more unsettling thought.

Ian followed in his brother’s path, which was the safest way to travel through a hoard like this. While Keith only looked ahead, Ian looked to the right, and his fear was immediate.

They had made a big mistake in forgetting Missy’s nest. It was more than deep enough to conceal her from view. She could be sitting down there, listening to them revealing their plans. They had to be more careful than that.

Ian ventured seven uneven steps to the right in order to look down into the nest. Missy had thankfully flown the coup.

Ian quickly retraced his steps and followed his brother again. Since they were alone, he had something to say. “I am a part of this. I can’t leave without Dani either.”

Keith paused, braced his right knuckles against a box, and looked over his shoulder at Ian. “If she hurt Dani…” Keith began, and his single-minded purpose turned him back ahead. He spoke without looking back at Ian; he had to keep climbing. “I’m stopping her. Then we get Will out, and burn this hell house down.”

Ian noticed that Keith had said
we
instead of
I
. That meant his brother had finally accepted him on this grim mission. They were at war together. At war inside a suburban house just a few miles from their apartment. How could they be so close to home and so far from safety? Enemy territory could be a few streets away, or right next door.

Ian liked Keith’s idea of a fire. It would be a mercy for the land the house stood on. He was also beginning to think they might be wise to fuel the fire with their cameras. The footage could turn poisonous, and despite Missy’s many cruelties on display, they were planning a murder on the same tapes. Footage could be the ultimate evidence used to convict them.

“And burn our cameras,” Ian added. Keith didn’t object, which Ian hoped meant he was considering his suggestion.

Keith arrived at the bottom of the second slope. The clothing slide was disorienting to look up, and he momentarily swooned. The living room, or any room, was hard enough to climb through. This loose fabric slide looked like it was going to be a new kind of bitch to climb. To add to the difficulty, this slope looked steeper and taller than the basement incline. Keith wasn’t surprised, considering the living room ceiling was exceptionally high.

Keith started up on both knees and the knuckles of his right hand, keeping the butcher knife pointed to the outside. If he slipped, he didn’t want the blade beneath him.

Ian followed Keith up the slope, giving himself a few feet of separation. In case Keith slipped, Ian didn’t want a shoe planting on his face. His brother had already taught him that lesson through example.

Keith didn’t crawl so much as scoot up the staircase. There was not one stable step or hold to be had, and every push upward threatened to send him sliding back down. He was trying to climb with one broken wrist, but had he the use of all four limbs, he figured the climb would still be extremely difficult.

Keith made it nearly halfway up the slope before his first major slip, as he crawled over a silky, flesh colored girdle. He fell flat on his belly, his left elbow hitting the slope but not his broken hand. Regardless, the vibration from his elbow’s impact killed in his wrist, which was no longer numb. His slide back down started immediately.

Ian saw Keith’s slip and slide, and he shifted to the side to get out of the way. He needn’t have bothered.

With his right hand full and nothing solid to grab onto, Keith stabbed his knife down. The blade penetrated many layers of dirty clothes and held on the step buried beneath, stopping Keith’s slide and giving him purchase on the buried stairs again.

Once his feet found spots to brace against and he was certain his position was secured, Keith pulled the knife out and stabbed higher with it. He used his right arm to pull himself up a foot. It was a slow and strenuous process, but it appeared the safest way to proceed. Keith continued using the butcher knife like a climbing pick to ascend the slope.

Seeing his brother resume his climb, Ian continued up behind him. He managed only a few feet before he stopped. There was something stuck to the bottom of his right hand, likely some small article of clothing. He feared it might be a soiled panty. Ian turned his hand palm and garment up. It wasn’t a panty.

Ian tried to tell himself what was stuck to his hand was some kind of rag or handkerchief, and it had been used to clean up raspberry jam or spilled nail polish. Then he realized the garment was a doily. Ian suppressed a gag when he finally admitted to himself it wasn’t jam or nail polish on the doily. It was blood.

Ian slowly peeled the blood-saturated doily off of his hand, and this time he did gag. It was as sticky as the refrigerator door handle, and left some of its residue on him. Ian had to wonder how Missy’s doily had gotten bloody in the first place. Was it her blood, or cat’s blood, or another unfortunate guest’s? Considering its partial freshness, he knew the bloody doily had been dropped recently. The thought
feminine hygiene
occurred to him, and he immediately regretted it. The mystery of the bloody doily was the kind of queasy question that would nag at him till his last day.

Once the doily was freed, Ian flung it to the side with revulsion. The bloody doily stuck to the wall.

“Gross me out.”

Ian took a moment to wipe the clotted palm of his hand on the clothing beside him. He didn’t worry about leaving Missy’s clothes a mess; they had been deposited that way. He saw that some of the blood remained in the lines and pores of his fingers and would need to be scrubbed off with soap and some very hot water. Boiling maybe. Followed by a splash of bleach.