Bone White Page 11

  And with that cautionary thought in mind, I continued toward the front doors with only one goal in mind. Getting the hell out.

  Chapter 31

  I was only a couple of steps from it when the front door came into view, and my heart dropped into my stomach. A large, shiny padlock secured massive steel chains that snaked in and out of the door handles. I took the last couple of steps with my eyes closed, silently cursing the bastard for being one step ahead of me. Again.

  “Fuck,” I whispered, giving at least some voice to my frustration. It was all I could risk, but it was something.

  Betting against hope and my own eyesight, I flipped the lever on the door lock and gripped both handles in my hands. With a push, the doors opened slightly, before abruptly clanking to a stop as the steel chain tightened. A mere inch of the outside world peeked through the gap, and a cool breeze hit my face. It was like water to a man lost in the desert. With my eyes closed and forehead pressed firmly against the gap in the doors, I breathed in the damp air like it had been years.

  I lived in that moment as long as I dared. The breeze. The pattering of steady rain dancing on the overhang covering the stoop. It was music to my ears after the silent hours inside the church, inside my prison. Still, it was only a taste, and not nearly enough to satisfy my hunger. The carrot that fate was dangling in front of me remained out of reach, a cruel joke that was almost too much to bear. For the first time since the whole ordeal started, a part of me broke free from the rest and resigned itself to its fate. There was no way out. I would die here or be tortured or whatever else might be in the man’s plans. My bones were his.

  I reluctantly pulled the doors closed until I heard the soft click of the bolt re-engaging. I wanted to stay there longer, breathing in the fresh air that the inside of the building so desperately lacked. I wanted to fill my lungs, at least, with some measure of freedom. But, losing myself in an unattainable mirage wasn’t going to get me out of here. Despite my broken heart’s resignation, I needed to keep moving. I needed to find a way out.

  Yeah, good luck with that, buddy.

  With my back against the doors, I surveyed the church’s interior contemplating my next move. With an occasional glance loft-ward, I searched the depths of the sanctuary, but saw little more than the vague edges of shapes. Screw it. I pulled out my cell phone and flipped it open. It wouldn’t matter if I had any battery life later if I never even got out of here in the first place. This time, I didn’t even bother checking for a signal. I could only handle so much disappointment at one time, and I was already full to capacity.

  Risking detection yet again, I swept the phone’s light back and forth across the room in search of something I’d missed. Another exit. Another room. A forgotten gun cabinet stocked with fully-loaded shotguns to blast my way out, a leftover urge from my short-lived fantasy of violence.

  No gun cabinet appeared, but something off to my left did catch my eye. A compact alcove had been built into the front corner of the sanctuary. With equal parts optimism and plain old curiosity, I leaned forward and pushed myself away from the front doors. Taking my steps carefully, I walked over to investigate closer. The wall that faced me had hooks mounted to it, obviously for winter coats, rain jackets and things like that. The hooks themselves were naked, tarnished with age and relatively uninteresting. What I did find intriguing, however, was what I discovered on the narrow wall jutting out from the one with the hooks.

  A wood-paneled door, short and narrow like the ones in a camper, stood part-way open. I took a deep breath and angled my cell phone directly at it. Its dingy white paint was rubbed bare around the heavily tarnished brass knob. I peered through the eight-inch opening and found nothing except a deeper tone of black. That is, until I thrust my phone into the space. The bluish light revealed a set of wooden stairs leading down into nothingness. It was the doorway to a cellar of some sort. Some place even darker than the sanctuary, that was for sure.

  I wished I had a coin on me. In movies, whenever they couldn’t see down to the bottom of a well or deep hole, they tossed a coin or something into it to see how far down it went. But then, maybe I should be glad I didn’t have a coin. It meant one less decision I’d have to make. Besides, I was pretty sure it wouldn’t tell me what I really wanted to know. It wouldn’t tell me whether there was a way out down there.

  Garrett could be down there.

  The thought entered my mind like a flash of blinding truth. Garret could be down there, trapped like I’d been earlier. Or, maybe he was fine, but down there searching for another way out as well. As the possibilities ran through my mind, only one thing was certain. The open door stood there like an invitation, practically calling my name. Unfortunately, I was generally a good listener.

  Besides, I didn’t know what else to do at that point.

  Pulling the needle-nosed pliers out of my shorts pocket, I gripped the make-shift weapon in my fist like a knife. With a deep exhale through pursed lips and a soft creaking sound, I accepted the door’s invitation.

  Chapter 32

  Cavernous. That’s how I would describe the emptiness beyond the doorway. Pitch black and hollow. Where the steps would lead me, I still had no idea. The bottom was submersed in a sea of uncertainty as dense and deep as the darkness. The light from my cell only reached so far.

  I stepped down onto the first step, then the second, so that I could pull the door closed behind me. But, not all the way. I wasn’t sure why, but I didn’t want to be completely sealed off from the upstairs. Just in case. I guess in the back of my mind, I was afraid that door, like all the others, would be sealed shut when I came back.

  I felt along the cool wall for a light switch, hoping to remove the uncertainty of what lay below. Part of me was afraid of what it would reveal, but every move I made at this point had the potential to blow up in my face. Still, I couldn’t just hang out and wait for whatever was going to happen. Besides, if anyone were down there, the light would already be on. Switching on a light packed less danger than tripping over whatever could be ahead of me.

  When my fingers finally found the switch, the bottom half of the stairs lit up in a pale yellow, forcing the darkness back into the shadows. The greenish concrete floor, grimy, cracked and uneven, held no promise. The part of me that felt coming down here was a bad idea started clearing its throat for the “I Told You So” speech.

  I took the stairs one at a time, pausing after each one to listen for any telltale signs that I might soon have company. But I heard nothing, at all. Not from below, or anywhere else in the church, for that matter. Even my tennis shoes made no sound as I gingerly took each step. I studied my feet as they reached the next tread, puzzled that the boards didn’t even creak. Strange for a building this old, but at least I didn’t have to worry about accidentally alerting someone to where I was.

  Halfway down and the stench hit me square in the gut. A sickening mix of rot, moldy sewage and overlooked dampness. It greeted me like a boisterous uncle, hugging too hard after busting your balls about your father having raised a girl. Acidic bile began rising up in the back of my throat, and I feverishly forced it back down. I doubled over, hands on my knees, from the pungent punch to the stomach. With the constricting stench threatening to take my breath away completely, it took every ounce of intestinal fortitude to keep from heading straight back up the steps. The one thing that stopped me was the knowledge that the way out of this church wasn’t up there.

  I stood bent over, unable to move, my mind traveling back to a day many summers ago when I learned how to gut a fish. We weren’t much older than ten, maybe eleven, when Garrett and I hauled a whole cooler full of blue cats out of the Seneca Park pond. According to the posted signs, we were supposed to release the fish back into the water. But, we were either too young to know better or too excited to give a damn, because we took the whole mess of them back to Garrett’s house. There, on his back patio, I got lessons in gutting fish, applying Band-Aids and stomaching foul smells. When Garrett to
ok that first dead fish in hand, slit it right up the middle and all the gore fell out, the smell more than the sight of it got to me. I didn’t think I could do it. But, Garrett kept telling me that I’d get used to the smell, and by the time he’d gutted halfway through the bucket, I was right beside him, knife in hand, slitting catfish bellies myself.

  This time was no different. After a few minutes of watering eyes, calming inner words, and more mouth breathing than any human being should ever have to do, I started getting used to the stench. In another minute, I straightened up and could continue down the stairs.

  Thirteen. That’s how many steps it took before the rubber soles of my shoes landed on cold, damp concrete. I had never understood it when people said, “I could feel it in my bones.” But, now I did. Understood completely. Even through my shoes themselves were still damp, this felt like I wasn’t wearing shoes at all. It felt like the moisture from the floor was entering through the pores in my feet, like some microscopic alien invading my body.

  Just above the end of the stairs, the lone light bulb hung by only its wires and illuminated the center of a rather large and soulless basement. Emitting little more radiance than a single candle, it was the only light in a very dark, unwelcoming space, and I couldn’t see much more now than I could from the top. I searched the walls for another source of light, but came up empty. The walls remained in shadow; every corner presented a mystery. If there was a way out, it was still waiting to be revealed.

  With the yellow bulb shrinking behind me, I held up my cell and began my exploration of the basement, my chest thumping like a war drum. Aside from the nauseating stench, it was like any other old basement at first glance. A rusted antique bicycle, like the ones you see old guys riding along the beaches in California, sat along one wall, propped against a heap of brown, paper grocery sacks, each one filled to the top with Styrofoam packing peanuts. The layer of dust on the bike had taken at least a year to accumulate, and I drew my initials on the seat with the tip of my finger. The bicycle looked like it had been abandoned, all the fun in it either used up or simply being denied. Brown cardboard boxes rested beside the bike, their flaps open, revealing wads of bubble wrap and stacks of smaller, white boxes.

  Somewhere in the darkness, a faint dripping sound piqued my interest. I hadn’t heard it at first, I’d been so jacked up on adrenalin, but now I could pinpoint the slow, subtle drip coming from farther back in the basement. I told myself that with the way it had been coming down outside, a basement like this was bound to have at least one drip, if not more. Hell, I was surprised the rainwater wasn’t flowing right through the walls.

  I turned to investigate further, but jerked to a halt when a rustling sound came from one of the grocery sacks. My breath hitched in my throat and I acted on my initial reaction, which was to take a step backward. Once I’d recovered, curiosity got the better of me and I leaned back in to get a closer look. With one hand, I scanned my cell over the stack of crumpled bags. My other hand raised the needle-nosed pliers, gripping them within my assuredly white knuckles. Coming across a mouse wouldn’t be unusual in a basement like this, especially out here in the country.

  I raised the pliers up to my shoulder, ready to stab at whatever I needed. As the pale light of the cell honed in on the spot in question, two small eyes stared from the sheer black space between two of the bags. The color of pale emeralds, they just stared at me, unblinking, unafraid. The eyes were too large, spaced too far apart to be a mouse. A shiver rattled my shoulders before working its way up the back of my neck. Whatever it was, the animal was a lot bigger than a mouse.

  As I pulled back, the creature saw its opportunity and leapt. A mangy blur of black and gray fur sprang from the bags straight at me. It hit my chest and scaled my left shoulder, showering me with white Styrofoam peanuts. My right hand instinctively cut through the air and clipped the prowler with the pliers as it sailed passed. The screech of pain identified it as a cat. First disappearing into the immediate darkness, the frightened animal eventually emerged into the light at the foot of the stairs. I caught my breath while watching the cat pad up the wooden steps, its tail curled awkwardly behind it.

  Gathering my scattered composure, I inspected the pliers. They were spattered with a bit of blood. There were only a few drops, but what the makeshift weapon lacked in carnage, it more than made up for in hair. A large clump of grey cat hair was matted between the grooved blades. “Ugh,” I whispered to myself and wiped the pliers on one of the paper sacks.

  Behold, the mighty pussy hunter.

  I could hear Garrett’s voice in my head and I found myself chuckling at it. If he had been here, he’d have never let me live down clipping off the end of a cat’s tail with a pair of fishing pliers just because it jumped out and scared me. I could imagine him bringing it up twenty years from now over beers at my kid’s graduation. Hey, remember that time we were in that old church and that cat scared the bejesus out of you, so you clipped off its tail with a pair of pliers? Remember? The ridicule would last a lifetime.

  But the smile faded with the scenario. Garrett wasn’t here. I was alone and had never felt its weight so heavily.

  Chapter 33

  I stood with hands on my hips, giving Garrett’s voice time to fade. Alone wasn’t something I was traditionally good at, and if nothing else, this experience was proving that. I leaned on Garrett too heavily, letting his knack for always knowing what to do take the lead, while being too easily content to take the back seat. All to my detriment. Ridicule or not, I needed him here.

  Out of sheer reflex, I raised my cell phone to call him, something I was all too familiar doing. But it wasn’t going to work this time. That damned white “X” glowed at the top of the shattered screen. I wouldn’t be calling Garrett, or anyone else, from down here. I wasn’t completely surprised since I hadn’t had service up top, but I squinted at the screen anyway, like I could will it to change. It didn’t, but that wasn’t what left me deflated seconds later. The battery life indicator showed only nineteen percent.

  Shit!

  Soon I’d have no more light. Soon I would no longer have the ability to call for help, even after I’d escaped this hellhole. I looked around and shoved the pliers into my back pocket before maiming any other domestic animals. There was nothing to do now but keep searching the basement for cellar steps or a window. Anything that would lead me out of here.

  But before turning away, the stacks of boxes caught my eye again, their tidiness a contrast to the filth of their surroundings. They looked like some sort of shipping boxes. I stepped closer and, in fact, a few bore labels, all of them to overseas locations. Uzbekistan, Brazil, Romania. Not from these places, but to them. What was being so carefully shipped from this disgusting place?

  A handful of smaller, white cartons lay on a bed of bubble wrap stuffed into the closest box, so I pulled it out. The carton was light and a shake told me it was empty. I opened its tucked flap anyway just to make sure. Apparently, this shipment wasn’t ready to go yet. I pushed aside the flap of a more promising box beside it. The white carton in this one was carefully nestled. I picked it up. It was light, but definitely held something. What, I didn’t know, and wasn’t completely sure I wanted to.

  I started to place the white carton back into its bubble wrapped nest, but a shift in the weight inside it elevated my curiosity and I couldn’t let it go. With a glance over my shoulder to make sure no one was silently sneaking up on me, my fingers pried open the top. I shook a makeshift tube of plastic wrap into the palm of my hand. A few inches long and less than an inch wide, I couldn’t for the life of me tell what was inside. It looked like a stick of chalk, making the idea of writing a note to whoever would receive this package seem like a good backup plan. Plans were good. But backup plans were smart. I picked at the tiny bundle until an end came loose, then unrolled the plastic.

  The object that fell into my palm was white, but it wasn’t chalk. It was some carnival toy, shaped like –

  A skeleton
’s finger.

  I jumped back, throwing the stark white bones at the shipping box they’d come out of. A shout escaped my throat as I did, or at least I hoped it was a shout. What rang in my ears was more like a child’s frightened shriek.

  Bones. The harvest.

  The girl had said it herself. Her father harvested bones. My stomach shook as I stared at the stacks of boxes, waiting to be filled and shipped. Was this the fate of the three girls from my class? Sold off as bones? But who…

  It took a stuttering breath to calm my mind. I was letting my imagination run wild, jet fueled by what I agreed now were too many late night horror flicks. There were people who bought bones, sure. I thought of the skeleton hanging in the corner of the biology lab at school. The wired together foot in the doctor’s office when he explained which bones were broken after I’d failed to get out of the way of Garrett’s bike in fifth grade. People bought bones, so there had to be someone selling them. And that provided a more rational explanation for this evening’s events than a sociopathic serial killer and his psychotic daughter simply getting their kicks. I didn’t know where legitimate skeletons came from – maybe from alcoholic bums donating their deceased bodies for some quick cash they could spend in the meantime, but I was pretty sure they weren’t supposed to come from dug up remains from an abandoned church’s graveyard.

  His work.

  I was fairly certain that harvesting bones, even from a cemetery where they’d never be missed, was illegal, and we’d walked right into his illicit operation. The names of the missing girls on the drawings was merely a coincidence, exactly what I thought in the first place, their names pulled from the news by a not-entirely-with-it girl for her imaginary friends.