There was a light on near the far wall that he hadn’t noticed before, craning over a desk he used to use all the time for building swing sets or crafting Christmas ornaments. It was still covered with sawdust and loose screws from his last project, whatever it had been. His tool chest still sat firmly against the wall, glistening in the stark light. As he got closer, he saw handprints in the dust that were too small to be his.
He ducked under a low hanging beam, pushing a piece of cloth out of his way. He squinted his eyes in the light as he finally reached the table. He ran a finger along its surface, making a line in the dust before rubbing it between his fingers and frowning.
His foot connected with something hard; a metal, making him hiss and hop back a pace. He grabbed the neck of the light, turning it down to see under the table.
It was his hacksaw. And his hammer, multiple screwdrivers, a tape measure and a utility knife. All of his tools were under the desk.
He paused, standing back up straight and returning the light to its previous position. All the color drained from his cheeks as he stared at the shiny red toolbox in the middle of his desk, relatively untouched by the dust that covered everything else in the basement. He could hear his heart louder than ever now, louder than he ever had before.
Slowly, he reached out and laid his palm upon the metal box, his thumb releasing its lock. He kept it there for a moment, took a deep breath, then pulled it open.
There was nothing. The box had been filled with nails, each of their dull metal shafts diffusing the light that struck it.
Don sighed, then laughed as he turned back around to go upstairs.
His face connected immediately with the large strip of flesh that hung from the ceiling.
He screamed, stepping back in horror until the small of his back connected with the table, rocking it and showering sawdust everywhere.
It was dry and cracked, but still instantly recognizable as the peach color of flesh. It was held up by two nails that pinned it to the beam he’d just walked past, their impacts making the skin sunken and wrinkled. There was hair around the edge that had become coarse and haggard, falling off one at a time and falling to the floor.
Next to it was a large chunk of curly red hair, still matted together with blood and sludge.
A large, pink mass had been stretched out over a varnished slab of wood that had previously displayed a salmon he’d caught on a vacation in Illinois, but now was a pin cushion for thirty-one teeth, each one stuck into the flabby pink puss with its own sharp edge. It took him a moment to recognize the small pustules along the rosy surface as cysts on a human lung.
A large, pointed chunk of bone sat atop the beam, its chalky white surface stained around the edges with crimson. It had been smoothed off at the edge to near perfection, the cut that had detached it clean and precise. Below it, hanging from a nail that had been plunged lazily into the mould-covered wood, was a silver, heart-shaped pendant... just like the one in the photograph of John Tyler’s daughter.
Don balked, feeling vomit rise up in his throat. He lunged forward and threw up, the apples he’d had for lunch ripping their way back up through his esophagus and spattering onto the floor. He stared down at it for a moment, unable to look up at the room. The vomit had landed on the tattered remains of a newspaper article he’d written almost a month ago:
Coral Beach Killer: CAUGHT.
He felt his stomach churn again, grabbing a nearby bucket and throwing up inside it, groaning loudly as he did. When he opened his eyes, he saw the chunks of noodle that had been inside him a moment ago mixed with the litre of blood that had already been there. He screamed, hitting the bucket away and spilling its contents all over the floor as he scrambled to his feet and ran for the stairs.
He fell against them, closing his eyes and laying his head against the sharp wood as tears started to stream down his face. He could smell the blood now, the metallic tinge so virulent he didn’t know how he’d missed it before. It made him turn more and more green with every sobbing breath he took.
“Jesus,” he sighed, and mucus and salt water fell from the tip of his nose, making a small puddle on the stair below him. He stared at it for a moment from over the edge of the one he was laid upon, the cloudy liquid reflecting his eyes right back at him. Four fingers crept their way around the stair he was on, the blood caked on them smearing the wood.
“Christ!” he gasped, his head snapping forward and locking with another set, staring out at him from between the stairs.
“Help,” the feminine voice said, dry and weak and crackling from unshed tears and dehydration.
Don brought one quivering, shaking hand up to his lips as the girl grabbed at the sleeve of the other, tugging at it fiercely. She came into the light a little, both her eyes dark with bruises and almost swollen shut. The bottom half of her face was smattered in blood, some of it new and some of it long since dried there. There were large clumps missing from her short, black hair that still held one or two braids on the right side. She was shirtless and covered with cuts and long, red marks from her navel to her neck, which had duel handprints permanently pressed into them. Handprints that were too
