Strange Magic (11 page)

The settling sun nose-dived below the western horizon a little faster than usual, or at least seemed to for many of Billington’s frightened citizens. Word that a killer was in their midst raced through the small community, spreading fear and uncertainty.

Within hours, the rumors had effectively shut down the town. Everything closed early, some through fear and others due to a lack of business. A few local churches even canceled their evening activities, suggesting perhaps their fear was greater than their faith. By ten o’clock, the streets were strangely quiet; only the occasional wailing of a police siren broke the stillness and gave rise to some optimism that perhaps the cops might get lucky and nail this madman before he struck again.

The disturbed man who liked to call himself Peeping Tom quickly stepped back from the window as another cruiser silently glided past the house. The room was in darkness and he could not be seen from the outside; moving away from the window was a reaction brought on by habit and his desire not to be seen.

He was completely naked, heedless of the cooling temperature. He paced back and forth, pausing now and
then to glance at his black prowling outfit, which lay draped over a high-backed wooden chair. He wasn’t thinking about the warmth it would afford him, but of the extreme power he felt tapped into when he put it on.

The urges had returned, steadily beating their drums inside his head, insisting he go out on the prowl again. His weaker side was reluctant to obey and continued to resist. He was quite confused by his indecisiveness; the queer sensation now flowing through him was an entirely new experience. The temptation to go on the prowl was definitely there; he felt its allure each time he glanced at his evening clothes. The only thing holding him back was the weakening resistance of his alter ego and fear; an emotion he had never felt before.

He’d been part of the crowd in the park that afternoon. He’d seen the skeletons and heard the killer’s strange message. In all probability, he was the only one who recognized the two distinctive dog leashes. He could still vividly recall the events of last night and the sudden disappearance of the scruffy-faced dog strangler.

“I know who dumped those skeletons at the bandstand. I don’t know his name, but I’ll never forget that face. I can’t believe it. I know who the killer is.”

A mixed chill of excitement and fear galloped up his spine, saturating his perverted mind with sensations far more intense than he’d felt previously.
Who was the disappearing man, and what did he want? Why had he left such a ghastly display in the park? Who was the Heatseeker? And what was that cryptic message all about?

“What the hell is happening around here?” Tom asked himself, returning again to gaze out the darkened window. He figured there were probably a lot of people
asking that same question tonight. Only a few knew the answer.

Outside, nothing moved. It was almost as if he were alone in the world for the very first time.

“Ready or not…here I come.”

Wilson’s playful shout rang out louder than expected, reverberating along the narrow hallway. He was positive Amanda had heard him but he hesitated coming after her too quickly. She loved to play hide-and-seek and he knew how disappointed she would be if he came looking before she’d found the perfect hiding spot. Before beginning the hunt, he called out once more, counted slowly to ten just to give her some extra time.

Amanda loved this silly cat-and-mouse game and had always taken it seriously. She tried with all her heart to find a good hiding spot but, in truth, she wasn’t very good at it and invariably Wilson had been able to track her down in a relatively short time. Sometimes he’d prolong the search by looking in places other than where she was, just so she could enjoy thinking she had outsmarted him. Today would probably be like any other day, but if it made her happy, he was glad to go through the motions.

It only took five minutes for Wilson to change his mind. He had started out searching effortlessly as always; looking in ridiculous places such as the refrigerator and the bathroom towel hamper before turning his
eye to the more obvious areas. He checked all her usual hiding spots, under the beds, behind the hallway’s freestanding mirror, the bathtub where she sometimes lay down with a towel over her. Now and again, she’d curl round the base of a brass lamp in the corner of the living room impersonating a ball, or simply sprawled under the dining room table pretending to be asleep. She wasn’t in any of these places.

A few more minutes of fruitless searching had Wilson thinking maybe she’d left the house. He didn’t think she would do such a thing, but he checked outside anyway. Wilson dashed to the rear of the house; from his bedroom window he was able to check the small backyard. Amanda was nowhere in sight; his curiosity changed to puzzlement and then fear.

“Where can she be?” he wondered aloud. “I’ve checked the whole house. Everywhere!”

A rattling noise from behind startled him away from the window. It ceased before he could turn about but he’d heard enough to zero in on the bedroom closet. It was one of those large double closets with bifold doors fixed on a sliding metal track. Wilson had already looked inside; twice, in fact, and distinctly remembered leaving the doors ajar. The sturdy oak doors were now shut tight. Obviously someone had closed them, causing the rattling noise. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out who.

“Now I’ve got you. Ready or not, here I come.”

Wilson hurriedly crossed the room, laughing loudly, feeling like a fool for allowing himself to worry needlessly. He was quite positive she hadn’t been in the closet when he checked it before. Where else could she hide?
His curiosity piqued, he took hold of each knob and threw open the closet doors.

“Ah-hahhh!” he cried, trying his best to surprise her, but again it was he who was caught off guard.

The closet was empty.

Not completely empty. Some of his clothes were still hanging there: a few shirts, sweaters, and pants either on hangers or scattered haphazardly on the floor, a selection of shoes, the odd glove or two, and a tangled knot of colorful neckties. Besides clothes, two unopened vodka bottles sat collecting dust on the top shelf. There were also a cluttered box of mementos wrapped inside a pillowcase and a few stringy cobwebs here and there, but otherwise the closet was bare. Where was his daughter?

“Amanda?” Wilson called out, speaking loudly but not quite scared enough to yell yet.

Frustration and anxiety began to overpower him when suddenly he heard Amanda laugh. She was trying hard to contain it but without success. Once she started giggling there was no stopping her. Great bursts of laughter seemed to be coming from beneath his feet and, amazingly, a few shoes started to shake before a two-foot section of the floor opened up as if on hinges. Beaming with joy, Amanda was holding the trapdoor open with one hand and pointing victoriously at her stunned father with the other.

“I got you, Daddy. I finally got you! After all these years, I finally found a place to hide where you couldn’t find me.”

“You sure did, sweetie,” Wilson responded. “If you hadn’t laughed, I’d never have found you.”

He’d lived in this old house for three years, since
Susan had been forced to throw him out. In all that time, he’d been using the closet without the slightest inkling of a secret trapdoor. The landlord had certainly never mentioned it and in all probability didn’t even know it was there. No wonder he’d had such a hard time finding Amanda.

“When did you find this hiding place, sweetie? You’ve never hid in there before.”

“I just found it today. I was gonna hide in the back of the closet behind your pants but I tripped on something. I looked and found this little brass ring. I gave it a good yank and the floor lifted up. It’s real dark and spooky down here but I heard you shout you were coming so I climbed down anyway. Neat hiding spot, huh?”

“Yeah…great, honey. You really fooled me this time. I don’t know why I’ve never noticed that brass ring before. It’s probably not the best place to play though. Probably filled with spiders and things, isn’t it? Climb out of there and let me take a look, okay?”

“Sure, Daddy. Ready or not…here I come.”

Amanda took two steps up and was almost clear of the hole when the huge grin on her face fell away, suddenly replaced by fear and shock. Her widening eyes appealed to him for help, the message loud and clear and delivered faster than she could have screamed the words. Wilson couldn’t fathom what the problem was and could only look on uncomprehendingly until she finally did find her voice and let out a long, hideous scream.

What’s wrong? Why’s she so frightened?
These questions flashed through Wilson’s mind before he looked down at her feet and understood what had happened.

Someone had grabbed hold of her ankles.

It seemed impossible, ludicrous in fact, but someone was hiding in the hole with her. Inside the trapdoor, visibility was poor but he was able to see two huge, grimy, long-fingered hands firmly locked on Amanda’s ankles. For a moment Wilson was unable to move, unable to help, he was so shocked and perplexed by the absurdity of the situation.

With a savage yank, the monstrous hands of the unseen predator effortlessly dragged his terrified child down into the dark void, pulling Amanda quickly out of sight. Wilson reached out despairingly but was too late, almost jamming his fingers as the trapdoor slammed shut.

“This can’t be happening,” screamed Wilson, his panic-stricken voice resounding in the emptiness around him. A painful scream from below was more than enough to convince him the danger was very real.

He dropped to his knees and frantically began searching for the small brass ring concealed in the carpet. Although he’d gone years without knowing it was there, today his trembling fingers found it almost immediately. He pulled sharply on the ring and for a brief tortuous moment he was sure it was locked, but it thankfully released and the small section of flooring lifted up.

Below his closet floor was much more than a tiny secret cubbyhole, there was a full staircase leading down into darkness.
Where does this go
? Wilson thought, his head spinning.
There’s no basement in this house. Not that I know of, anyway.

Without delaying a moment to consider his own personal safety, he charged down the secret staircase into the silent darkness below. Come hell or high water, he was determined to save his daughter

Outside Kemp’s run-down bungalow, nothing moved. A cool breeze rustled the treetops, interrupting the peaceful stillness on Morgan Street. The loud rumbling sound of a powerful engine sparking to life disturbed it even more. Ever so slowly, the old red pickup nosed toward the dilapidated dwelling. Inside the cab, a man shrouded in shadow began to squeeze the steering wheel tighter and tighter, tension building within him with every revolution of the tires.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” the dark man asked for the third time.

Yes…trust me
, the magic trunk replied, a silky whisper deep inside his mind.

It was the same response he’d been given each time he’d asked and although the words were spoken with confidence, the Stranger wasn’t fully convinced. He wanted to leave the truck at the end of the block, where he’d been sitting since following Kemp home from the park. He could have walked down the street and surprised him. Starting up the old truck at this time of the morning on such a quiet street was sure to draw unwanted attention. He was only going to get one chance at this. What if Kemp was expecting him? He’d surely be able to hear him coming and the element of surprise would be lost. What was the trunk of secrets thinking?

Relax, my friend
, the mysterious voice soothed, picking up on the Stranger’s doubt.
I promise you things are under control. Kemp is in a deep sleep and won’t hear your approach. He is having a sweet little dream about his lovely daughter. They were playing hide-and-seek and having so much fun it was making me sick, so I…how shall I put
it…decided to join in. They’re not having quite as much fun anymore!

The power in the magic trunk never ceased to amaze the evil magician. As he turned into Kemp’s driveway and killed the engine he wondered how the trunk could not only know about Kemp’s dream but somehow influence and control it too? Not trusting himself to speak, he asked in his mind,
Are you sure he won’t wake up?

He was staggered to find out the keeper of the trunk had already read his mind.

Of course I’m sure
, the trunk spat back, a hint of annoyance in its tone.
Kemp will do what I tell him to do. Right now, his sweet little dream is snowballing into a full-fledged nightmare he’d gladly wake up from, but he’ll sleep till I wake him. I won’t do that until you’re ready. Now go…it’s time.

A wicked grin stretched across the thin man’s pallid face, distorting his usually calm, controlled features. He bent slightly and removed a long-bladed dagger from the inside of his right boot. It wasn’t nearly as beautiful as the jewel-encrusted work of art he’d used on his landlady; this one had a dull gray blade with a worn leather hilt, but it was sharp enough to cut through a steel nail and it felt real good in his big sweaty hand. He was sure it would do nicely.

“Yes…I agree. It’s definitely time,” he hissed between clenched teeth. Stepping from the truck, he headed for Kemp’s front door. “Sweet dreams, you slimy bastard. Sweet dreams!”

Unaware he was merely a pawn in a twisted dream that had once been one of his most precious memories, Wilson continued down the staircase, following the pitiful
cries of his frightened daughter. His little girl’s cries for help seemed to grow fainter in the impenetrable darkness, urging Wilson to move faster to try and keep pace. He stumbled constantly, continually scraping and bumping his arms, knees, and forehead on the rough stone walls until he realized the design of his surroundings. It was a spiral staircase, like something out of a medieval castle: made of stone or rock, precariously steep, and tightly curving in on itself to Kemp’s right. Once he had the layout visualized, he made much faster progress with far fewer bumps and bruises.

He never once stopped to wonder why such a staircase existed under his rented house or how impossibly long and deep into the ground it seemed to go. As with most dreams, none of that crossed his mind. For the moment, all he could think about was Amanda. He had to save her. Simply had to. If anything happened to her, he’d never forgive himself.

Amanda’s shrieks were less frequent now, yet Wilson could take some comfort in the knowledge he seemed to be closing the distance between them.
Hold on, sweetie
, he silently prayed, not wanting to give his position away, yet hoping that telepathically she could hear his plea and know he was on his way to rescue her.

One more curve to the right and Wilson nearly scorched himself running into a flaming torch mounted at head level on the rock wall. Luck was with him; he avoided the flames but had to momentarily pause to recover from the blinding light assaulting his dilated eyes. When he’d adjusted to the changing light, he noticed the torch was barely hanging on an old rusted metal bracket. He easily pulled the two-foot-long torch out of its holder and was soon back in pursuit. The light was a
welcome relief, sure, but if the situation warranted it, he might be able to use the torch as a weapon as well.

Around the next bend, Wilson pulled to a sudden stop, the breath sucked out of his lungs. Two steps down, one of the stairs had a small splash of blood streaked across it.

Amanda’s blood
, he thought.
Hurry, Wilson…hurry!

He was about to jump over the stained step and continue on, but at the last minute he spotted something else on the stair—something tubelike and thin—sitting in the pool of blood. At a quick glance he thought it might be a plump worm sitting in his path, lying still, its flesh splashed red from the sticky mess it rested in, but Wilson knew better.

Oh my God! Her finger! The bastard’s cut off my angel’s finger!

Sure enough, one of Amanda’s digits lay on the step, severed below the second knuckle. Wilson gently picked it up and held it in his shaking hands, gently, as tenderly as he remembered holding Amanda herself as a newborn baby. Tears of sorrow, frustration, and rage spilled down his cheeks, and he might have stayed there lost in despair but Amanda screamed again farther down the stairs, bringing Wilson’s confused mind back into focus.

“I’m coming, Amanda,” he screamed, not giving a damn if his adversary heard him now or not. “Daddy’s coming!”

Wilson tore off down the stairs, hell-bent on getting his hands on the madman who had disfigured and tortured his sweet, innocent child, but had hardly made it ten stairs when once again a splash of crimson brought him to a stop.

Another puddle of blood.
Another severed finger.