The Ghost of Longthorn Manor and Other Stories Page 7

  I hesitate, knowing full well that I should stick to my original plan and leave, but I guess it couldn't hurt to at least go into the room. I mean, I trust Jake and I'm certain he's a good guy at heart, and I don't want to be rude.

  “I have to go real soon,” I tell him, finally taking his hand, “and I'm not up for anything... you know, physical or...”

  My voice trails off, and I think I'm blushing again.

  “Do you hate me?” I ask.

  He shakes his head, and now his smile seems very genuine.

  “Come on,” he says, leading me by the hand and gently pushing the door open.

  The air feels so much colder as soon as I step into the room, and I can actually feel myself tensing as I start to shiver. Looking around, I see that the room has a whole load of plastic chairs arranged around the sides, although the rest of the room is completely empty. I guess I was worried there'd be a bed, but I can't help thinking that I've been something of a scaredy-cat. As Jake lets go of my hand, I wander over to the window and see that there are ice crystals on the glass, and I take a moment to look out at the dark, empty street.

  “What do you think of the view?” he asks.

  I turn to him. “It's beautiful. Is this what you wanted to show me?”

  When he doesn't answer, I smile at him before looking at the chairs. There must be at least twenty of them, maybe even more. Some of them are old-fashioned wooden chairs, some are more like the kind of plastic things you get at school. It's like someone has just gathered as many chairs together as possible, sourcing them from various different locations.

  “Kinda weird, huh?” I continue. “Makes you wonder what used to go on here.”

  Again, he doesn't reply. He's just standing next to the open door, as if he's content simply watching me.

  Shivering a little more now, I look back out the window for a moment. I don't want to be rude, so I figure I'll just stay here for a few more minutes before telling him that I have to leave. I just hope he doesn't try anything.

  “I like night-time,” I tell him, crossing my arms across my chest and rubbing my shoulders in an attempt to keep warm. “Is that weird? The world is so much calmer and more peaceful. I feel like it's easier to notice things that maybe you don't see during the day. I know that probably makes me sound like some kind of goth, but I'm not, I swear. I just like being places where there aren't so many people. I think that's the essence of the truth I'm trying to get at in my videos and my podcast. I should write that down sometimes, it's kind of deep.”

  I can just about make out Jake's reflection in the window. I watch him carefully, wondering whether it's too early to turn to him and say that I'm going home, and finally I decide to wait just a moment longer. I really, really hate the idea of being rude.

  “Next time we hang out, though,” I continue, “maybe we could somewhere in the day. Just like -”

  Suddenly I see him pushing the door shut, and I can't help flinching as it rattles in the frame. I keep my eyes on his reflection in the window, while telling myself that I really need to not get carried away here. He's a nice guy, albeit a little intense, and I can't help worrying that maybe he still thinks he can get lucky tonight. I'm by no means hot, but he seems to be showing an interest in me, and I figure I might need to be a little more forceful here. What he doesn't realize, of course, is that I have a can of mace spray in my pocket.

  “Okay, then,” I say finally, turning and forcing a smile, “so -”

  I let out a sudden, brief scream as soon as I see that there are girls sitting on all the chairs, staring straight at me.

  Their eyes are black.

  Every single one of them.

  Their eyes are jet black and hollow, and their mouths are hanging open and jet black too.

  “What's going on?” I stammer, shivering as much from fear as from the cold now as I see that Jake is still watching me from next to the closed door. Stepping back, I bump against the window, causing the frozen glass to rattle. “Jake, who are all these people?”

  When he doesn't reply, I turn and see that he's not even looking at me. He's looking at the girls, and there's still a very calm, very blank expression on his face.

  “I'm so totally done here,” I continue, edging toward the door while making sure not to turn my back on the girls. “I'm officially not -”

  Before I can finish, I realize I recognize one of the girls.

  “Daria?” I whisper, shocked by the sight of Daria Edwards. She went missing last year, after a night out seeing a band, and everyone kind of assumed she'd been kidnapped and murdered. Either that, or she'd run away from home. “Daria, what are you doing here?”

  I wait for her to reply, but she simply stares back at me with the same blank, hollow-eyed and open-mouthed expression as all the others. I can't really see too clearly in the moonlight, but it's almost like her eyes have been removed and the sockets have been left empty. Something black seems to be running from the edges of her mouth, as if her throat is overflowing with some kind of tar.

  “Cool make-up, guys,” I continue, fighting the sense of unease in the pit of my belly. “Really top job. Are you, like, part of some club or -”

  Suddenly I hear a shuffling sound nearby, and I turn just in time to see Jake stepping out of the room. He pulls the door shut and I immediately run over, only to find that it's locked.

  “This isn't funny!” I yell, banging my fists against the door. “Let me out of here right now! I'm totally not enjoying this!”

  I try the handle, but it's clear that Jake thinks he's being funny.

  “So this is like an art thing, right?” I stammer, still desperately trying to open the door. “Like an installation? You're kind of taking it a bit too far, though. I mean, if you keep up like this, you're gonna give someone a heart attack. You need to be more aware of boundaries.”

  Still trying to get the door open, I look over my shoulder and watch as the girls stare at me from their chairs. I want to scream my goddamn head off, but I'm convinced they'll all start laughing at me and I'll turn out to be the butt of some huge joke. They're probably filming this. If I freak out and end up in some video, they'll get loads of hits and my reputation will be trashed.

  “Daria, you really need to call someone,” I continue, turning to her and seeing that the black tar is still oozing down her chin. “Your parents are, like, totally freaking out. More than that, actually. They think you're dead! I think they even held, like, a funeral for you. They had an empty coffin and everything.”

  I wait for her to respond, for her to show any hint of emotion at all, but she's simply staring at me with those black, tarry eyes.

  “I can take a joke,” I add, “but -”

  Suddenly I let out a gasp as I spot a pair of normal eyes staring at me from the back of the crowd. There's a little girl, blonde-haired and no more than five or six years old, and she's watching me with a calm, curious expression. A moment later, I spot two other blonde girls, slightly older but staring at me in exactly the same way.

  I recognize them.

  The Chapmans.

  Katie, Lizzie and Wendy Chapman. The little girls who vanished, the girls from the photos downstairs.

  “You, uh...”

  My voice trails off.

  I don't know exactly what's going on here, but I can figure it out later. Much later. Once I'm home and I've called the police. Obviously the three girls can't be the Chapmans, and somebody's staging some kind of sick, disgusting scene for a video.

  “Jake, I need you to open the door,” I stammer, unable to hide the fear from my voice as I frantically turn the handle again and again. “Jake? I get that you think this is funny, but I'm actually really super uncomfortable, okay? And I happen to think that this is really wrong. It's in very bad taste, and I think you should focus on that rather than on getting hits on some video, okay?”

  “What else am I supposed to do?” he yells suddenly from the other side of the door. It almost sounds like he's sobbing. �
��It's what they want! I have to give them what they want!”

  “Jake -”

  “I can't stop!” he shouts, and then I hear the sound of him running down the stairs.

  “Jake, come back!”

  I look down at the handle, hoping against hope that there'll be a key or some other way out. The air in this moonlit room is freezing now, and I can see my breath.

  “Jake, are you still there?” I continue, listening for some sign of him out on the landing. “Jake? Seriously, let me out of here!”

  I wait.

  No reply.

  “Jake, please! Jake -”

  Stopping suddenly, I realize the hairs are standing up on the back of my neck. I hesitate, too scared to even contemplate the possibility of what might have happened, and it takes a moment before I manage to summon enough courage. Finally, slowly, I turn around.

  The girls are all on their feet now, and one of them is standing hollow-eyed and tar-mouthed right behind me.

  Part Four

  Erin - Today

  “Eleven girls in ten years,” I point out, still scrolling down the page on my phone. “Do people not think that's slightly suspicious? Like, just a tad? Eleven girls go missing in this part of the state, and the cops still don't think they're linked at all?”

  I stop scrolling as I find a set of photographs, showing all the missing girls. There's Monica Cole and Daria Edwards and Hazel Carter and Angela Brown and eight others. The only thing they all seem to have in common is that they were all in their late teens or early twenties when they vanished, and they were all kind of pretty. There has to be something else, though, something that binds them all together. Either the person who's been taking them is super smart, or the cops are being incredibly dumb.

  Hearing a gurgling sound, I glance at Carrie and see that she's sucking the last of her milkshake through a straw.

  “Or do you think I'm wrong?” I ask, as the waitress carries some plates of pie to one of the diner's other booths. “Please tell me if you think I'm seeing patterns that aren't there. I know I do that sometimes.”

  “I dunno,” she mutters with a shrug. “I guess it's complicated. But if the police have looked into it, then -”

  “The police are lazy assholes!”

  “I'm sure they're not. I'm sure they've done their job. Girls go missing, Erin. It's just, like, something girls do. Those ten girls -”

  “Eleven girls!”

  She sighs. “Those eleven girls probably all, like, just went off for some other reason.”

  “Do you seriously believe that?”

  “I believe it's possible. And I believe that if there was anything to link them together, the cops would've found it by now. Think about it. Eleven girls, yeah? Say four or five of them were murdered and their bodies were never discovered. Now you only have five or six left who might've taken off for a new life. Suddenly it doesn't seem so outlandish, does it?”

  “I guess not,” I reply, although I can't help looking down at my phone again. Carrie has a good point and I figure I probably shouldn't be trying to second-guess the police, but at the same time I have this gut feeling that I'm missing something.

  That everybody is missing something.

  “I guess they'd have tracked their phones by now,” I continues, “unless something was stopping them doing that. It really doesn't make a lot of sense.”

  “It's him,” Carrie mutters, sucking on her straw again and making a loud gurgling sound, before wiping her lips and sitting up straight. “Remember your posture, Erin.” She clears her throat before forcing a big grin. “Hey Jake!”

  “Hey.”

  Looking up, I see that Jake has wandered over to our table. He's this guy we've bumped into once or twice at local bars and clubs, and for some reason he seems to have taken a shine to us. He's pretty hot and he seems kinda chill, but I can't shake the feeling that he's after something. Of course, seeing as how he's this slacker guy who never seems to have anywhere to be, I guess it's not hard to figure out what he's after. Alcohol, weed and girls, probably more or less in that order. He's such a walking cliche.

  “Are you ladies coming to see Whore Engine tomorrow night?” he asks.

  “Is that a movie?” I reply.

  He smiles. “It's a band. A friend of mine is the singer. They're playing at a club over in Dortmonville.”

  “That's a little far for us,” I point out, before Carrie has a chance to say anything. “We don't drive.”

  “I could see about getting you guys a ride.”

  Carrie's eyes light up. “We'd -”

  “It's a little far for us,” I say again, more firmly this time. “Anyway, Dortmonville's this totally sleazy place. We'd probably get raped and murdered.”

  “It's not that bad,” Jake replies, and he still has a faint smile on his lips. “I'd love to see you there.”

  God, it's a cute smile, and those are some hot cheekbones. Thankfully, I'm completely immune to his chiseled good looks.

  “You should come and check it out,” he continues. “I don't know who's supporting, but Whore Engine are always worth the trek. Have you heard them?”

  “Not that I'm aware of,” I tell him. “Maybe we'll check them out if they ever come a little closer.”

  “They mostly play in Dortmonville.”

  “Well, shoot,” I continue, “I guess we're bang out of luck.”

  I wait for him to accept that we're not going to go, but instead he simply stands and stares at us. It's almost as if he never realized we might turn him down, as if he's not used to people telling him they won't go to see some stupid band. I honestly think his brain is frozen. Maybe he's never been rejected before.

  “It's not that far,” Carrie suggests suddenly, kicking me under the table. “We could maybe think about making an effort. I mean, we could always -”

  “No, we couldn't,” I reply, cutting her off again. “We have that thing tomorrow.”

  “What thing?”

  “You know, the thing.” I pause trying to think of a thing. “We're going to Lindsay Hopper's birthday.”

  “We are?”

  “We are.”

  She furrows her brow. “Oh.”

  “So I'm afraid we're busy,” I continue, turning to Jake with as much of a smile as I can muster. For a moment, just a fraction of a second, his angular cheekbones seem to catch the light, and I feel a tug on my heart that makes me reconsider. I quickly remind myself, however, that it'd be crazy to go trekking off to Dortmonville just because a guy has cute cheekbones. “Sorry, dude.”

  He hesitates, and now there's a hint of irritation in his eyes.

  “Okay, then,” he mutters finally. “I guess... I guess I'll have to find somebody else to meet me there for a drink.”

  “I guess you will,” I reply. “I'm sure it won't be too hard.”

  “Sure.”

  He still seems as if he can't quite accept this rejection. After a moment, however, he looks down at one of the red plastic chairs, and then he reaches down and touches the back section, almost as if he's mesmerized. I wait for him to say something, but I swear that for the first time in this lame conversation his pretty face looks genuinely stunned.

  “These are pretty,” he mutters finally. “Sturdy. I could use some like this.”

  Adding something else under his breath, he turns and heads toward the door. I watch as he leaves, and when I turn back to Carrie, I swear I can see the lustful intent in her eyes.

  “No,” I tell her.

  She turns to me. “Huh?”

  “Down girl. We're not going.”

  “Sure we're not.” She looks down at her empty milkshake for a moment, and she seems lost in thought. “Are we actually going to Lindsay Hopper's birthday party?”

  “Of course we're not going to Lindsay Hopper's birthday party,” I reply, signaling for the waitress to bring us two new milkshakes. “Why the hell would we want to go there? That was just a cover story to make that Jake guy stop pestering us.”


  “Oh. Okay.”

  I start scrolling down the page on my phone again, although the browser freezes for a moment. As I try to get the damn thing going again, I accidentally click on one of the links, and I end up loading a page about the delightful down of Dortmonville.

  “Are you sure we wanted him to stop pestering us?” Carrie asks, with just a hint of melancholy in her voice. “He has wonderful cheekbones.”

  “We'd have a terrible time if we went all that way to see some dumb band with the name Whore Engine.” I scroll down the page, checking out some information about Dortmonville. “The place is a dump. No-one ever has a good time in Dortmonville, and I'm sure Jake'll find some other girl who can swoon and admire his cheekbones. Trust me, you should be thanking me for getting us out of that mess. Besides, I don't like Jake. I can't put my finger on it, but there's just something about him that tickles me the wrong way.”

  “I guess.”

  She's clearly a little disappointed, although her features brighten as the waitress brings two fresh milkshakes to the table. Of course, now I've set myself a challenge, and I have to find something really cool for us to do tomorrow night, so that Carrie doesn't end up wishing she'd accepted Jake's offer. Looking down at my phone, I'm about to start hunting for ideas when I spot a photo on the page about Dortmonville.

  The photo shows a house, and I swear I've seen the house somewhere before. Maybe on the news.

  “Huh,” I mutter, “isn't that the house where those three little girls...”

  I check the text under the photo, and sure enough it turns out that I'm right. It is the house where those Chapman girls vanished. I don't know all the details, but I remember hearing about that case, and it was freaky as hell.

  “Just another reason to never go to Dortmonville,” I say with a sigh, as I start checking out things for us to do closer to home tomorrow instead. Glancing at Carrie, I can't help seeing a wistful look in her eyes, as if she's still thinking about Jake's cheekbones. “Trust me, dude,” I add, “we're better off staying put. Whatever that Jake dude wanted, I'd bet you dollars to donuts that it wouldn't have been much fun. There's just something about him that feels really off. And I'm never wrong about that sort of thing.”