Flesh

This obviously was the kitchen. This was where the killings had supposedly taken place.

She couldn’t see Roland.

The kitchen wouldn’t be at the top of his list of places to spend the night. Anywhere but the kitchen.

Dana set the sack down between her feet. She tried the knob. When it didn’t turn, she began to work her screwdriver into the crack between the door and its frame, directly across from the knob.

She widened the gap. Splinters of wood broke off. She kept digging and prying. At last, the lock tongue slipped back and she carefully opened the door.

Picking up the sack, she entered the kitchen. The sounds of the storm were muffled when she shut the door. The fresh air also went away. There was a heavy, unpleasant odor.

Motionless, she listened. Water dripping onto the floor from her poncho, nothing else. Except her heartbeat.

Roland won’t hear that.

He obviously wasn’t in the kitchen. The rain pounding on the roof provided enough steady noise to cover any sounds Dana might make.

As long as she was careful.

Very slowly, she pulled the poncho over her head. Its plastic made quiet rustling sounds. She lowered it to the floor.

Listened.

Balanced on one foot at a time, she pulled off her shoes and socks.

She realized that she was gritting her teeth and trembling.

Excitement, not fear.

Poor Roland, he’ll have a cardiac arrest.

Wouldn’t that be a pity.

Dana unbuttoned the waistband of her jeans and lowered the zipper. Thumbs under the elastic of her panties, she drew down both garments at the same time and stepped out of them. Then she pulled her sweatshirt off.

She took a deep, shaky breath.

This’ll be quite a treat for you, Roland old pal. You wanted to look at the bod, you’ll get it. The real thing, this time, not some fucking snapshots.

Hope you enjoy it.

Squatting, Dana folded open the sack. She scooped out a handful of flour. It seemed almost iridescent. She spread the powder over her skin from shoulder to shoulder. Streams of it trickled down her breasts. Coating her left arm, she noticed that her skin was pebbled with goose bumps. She filled her other hand and covered her right arm. Then she scooped up flour in both hands and spread it over her chest and belly. Her nipples were stiff. Touching them sent warmth down her body. She rubbed flour over her thighs, hands gliding, feeling her gooseflesh through the thin layer of powder, feeling her slick wetness when she patted the flour between her legs. With her hands full again, she coated her feet and shins and knees.

Then she straightened up. Shoulder to feet, she was white except for faint areas where the flour had been rubbed thin from the way she had squatted. She dug more powder from the sack, spread it over her thighs and hips and belly, and emptied her hands by swirling the last of the flour over her breasts.

She looked down at herself again.

Some ghost.

Roland wouldn’t know whether to get a hard-on or a heart attack.

The floor around her feet was dusted white.

Dana wrung her hands, trying to get the flour off them. They remained white. She reached back and rubbed them on her buttocks. That got most of it.

Turning toward her pile of clothes, she bent from the waist to avoid smearing the powder, and pulled her knit cap from the pocket of her jeans. It was navy blue, but it looked black in the darkness. Holding the cap away from her body, she felt for the eyeholes she had cut that afternoon. When she found them, she pulled the cap over her head, drew it down to her chin, and tucked her dangling hair up the rear of it.

Dana wished she could check out the effect. Maybe tomorrow night. Do it again, only in Jason’s room. He had a full-length mirror. Maybe have him spread the flour on her. And she would do the same for him. And then they’d make it.

Only one problem. Jason might not be overjoyed that she had paraded in front of Roland bare-ass naked.

He should complain, the shit. He’s the one showed Roland the Polaroids.

Dana took a trembling breath through the wool cap.

Time to get going and give Roland the thrill of his life.

She started across the kitchen. After a few steps, one of her feet landed on something sticky, like paint that hadn’t quite dried.

Her nose wrinkled.

Hadn’t they cleaned up the mess from last night?

She sidestepped and got out of it, but her foot made a quiet snicking sound each time she lifted it off the linoleum.

With her back to the kitchen windows, she couldn’t see much.

Blindman’s buff.

Hands out, she finally touched a wall. She made her way slowly along it, and found a door. When she opened the door, a cool draft wrapped her skin. Something wasn’t right about this. Clutching the door frame, she slipped her right foot forward and felt the floor end.

Stairs?

Maybe a stairway leading down to the wine cellar, or something.

Roland might be down there.

Not a chance.

Dana shut the door and continued following the wall. Soon, she touched another door frame. Reaching past it, she felt wood. Ribbed wood. A louvered door of some kind.

Moving in front of it, she gently pushed. The hinges creaked slightly.

That’s okay. Let Roland hear it. Give him something to think about.

Holding the door open, she stepped through. Her side hit something that squeaked and wasn’t there anymore, then bumped her again from armpit to hip. Even without being able to see, she knew what must have happened; they were double swinging doors, and she’d only opened one side before trying to go through.

Roland must have heard that.

Give him a little more?

She considered moaning like an anguished spirit. But maybe spirits don’t moan. Besides, he might figure out who it was from her voice.

Dana stepped through the doors, eased them shut, and stood motionless.

It was a big room.

Roland might be here. Might be looking at her right now. Frozen with terror.

This is it.

Dana’s heart pounded furiously. Tremors of excitement shook her body. Drops of sweat slid down her sides, tickling.

Several windows along the three walls let in hazy gray light, but vast areas of the room were black.

Dana looked at herself through the fuzzy holes of her cap. The flour gave her skin a dull gray hue, not the glow she had wanted. But good enough. Maybe better, in fact. Bright enough to let her be seen, but only dimly.

What you can’t quite see—that’s what is really scary.

So how does a ghost walk? she wondered. They probably don’t. In movies, they generally swoop through the air. But zombies kind of stagger around with their arms out.

Dana lifted her arms as if reaching for her next victim and took long, stiff-legged strides toward the center of