The Chosen Page 4

  The sun was gone. It was pitch black outside.

  Clarice’s only source of light was her flashlight.

  She felt something crawl on her neck and slapped it. When she looked at her hand, there was nothing. The bedroom consisted of a rusty bedframe and mattress that had fallen into decay. Centimeters of dust gathered on a stack of pagoda lampshades.

  Clarice checked the drawers on the nightstand. She found nothing in one drawer. She tried the other stand. It was jammed. She pulled hard. It was a little too hard, and she ended up ripping the drawer out. The contents scattered across the floor. Clarice approached it. She lifted up a dusty nudie magazine and dropped it.

  An outside breeze rattled the windows.

  Clarice scanned the room with her eyes.

  Go home, Clarice, she told herself. It was problematic that she was here in the first place. She had promised herself to leave this type of stuff behind.

  There were fingernail-sized tears on the wallpaper. She noticed a black line on a wood slats behind the tear. She scratched the wallpaper, revealing more of the black line.

  Clarice scratched away another inch. There was what appeared to be a carving of a tree. It was about the size of her finger. She tried to remember if she’d seen a similar symbol. None came to mind. She scratched more, revealing another tree, but this one was flipped over. Clarice made the hole big enough to grab it with her whole hand. She peeled it back, exposing more of the wall behind it. There were more of these strange symbols along with the words, “Make it stop. Make it stop. Make it stop.”

  Heart racing, Clarice pulled away more and more of the wallpaper. Each tear was invigorating. Soon, shredded chunks of the old wallpaper littered the floor around her feet. Finished, she stepped backward, allowing her flashlight bloom to expand and illuminate more of the exposed wall.

  It was desecrated with strange symbols that looked like trees, runes, shapes, and spirals. There were phrases written, some of them upside down, that read, “Make it stop,” “I won’t obey,” “It wants them. It wants to hurt them,” and more ravings of a mad man.

  Clarice’s hunch was right. The cycle was repeating.

  She filmed video of the wall with her smartphone.

  A door opened in the living room.

  Clarice froze.

  She quickly turned off her light.

  The floor creaked in the other room.

  Clarice squatted down.

  She wasn’t alone.

  Her breathing quickened as she moved closer to the door.

  The floor groaned beneath her every step.

  She peeked out of the gap of the bedroom door. It was just blackness. Suddenly, a flashlight shined her way. It cut through the gaps of the standing furniture in front of her. The person holding it didn’t see her.

  Clarice scurried to the window and struggled to open it. She checked the latch. It was rusted in place. She attempted to twist it. Pain shot through her fingers. No luck. She turned back to the room. Hiding under the bed was stupid. The closet was packed as well. Her only other choice was to move back to the living room and try to sneak past the stranger. She stayed low and headed into the tight maze of furniture.

  The flashlight beam crossed through the gaps of furniture again. Clarice held perfectly still. She went down on her hands and knees and spotted a table she could crawl under.

  The light bobbed behind her as the man started toward the bedroom door.

  Now was Clarice’s chance.

  She scrambled under the table with minimal noise and dashed for the door.

  “Hey!” the man shouted.

  Clarice pushed out of the door and ran to her car.

  Footsteps gained on her.

  She put the key in the lock when she noticed a police cruiser parked behind her Challenger.

  Her shoulders slumped. She turned back, seeing Officer Matthews.

  Winded, she mustered a weak smile. “Good to see you, Officer.”

  The cop with multi-colored eyes kept a hand on his flashlight and the other on his holstered pistol. “Is it?”

  Clarice brushed a loose strand of hair from her cheek. “You startled me. If I had known it was you, I wouldn’t have run.”

  Matthews glanced around. “You alone?”

  Clarice didn’t like that question. “Yeah.”

  “You understand you’re trespassing?”

  Clarice opened her mouth, but no words came out. She had two choices. The first was to keep silent and hope that nothing would be admissible in the courts, but the other was to try to talk her way out of it.

  Clarice said in a joking manner. “I know this looks bad--”

  “Put your hands on the hood of the car.”

  Clarice’s heart sank. “Officer. Can’t we talk for a moment?”

  “Ma’am.”

  Deflated, Clarice placed her palms on the car’s cold metal. She couldn’t keep her face from sinking into a frown. Her eyes stared into a faraway place.

  “I’m detaining you for trespassing on private property. You have the right to remain silent…” the officer told her her rights as he briefly patted her down, taking her keys, phone, and wallet.

  Afterward, he cuffed her one hand at a time.

  “What about my car?” Clarice asked.

  “I’ll have someone take it to the impound lot.”

  He loaded her into the back of the squad car and slammed the door.

  6

  Dejected

  Clarice’s mouth formed a line on her face. She sat perfectly still in the back of the cop car. Her hands were cuffed behind her back, forcing her into an uncomfortable posture. Her body swayed every time the road took a turn.

  Beneath the surface, she boiled with anger. It was not directed toward the cop. She just couldn’t believe how stupid she was for getting caught. She’d been breaking and entering for years, and never once was she arrested. Now, three nights back home, and she was headed to the police station.

  Office Matthews kept his gaze ahead and his hands on the Three and nine o’clock position of the steering wheel. The guy was a stickler for rules.

  The quiet chatter of the police radio filled the cab.

  Matthews glanced up the rear view mirror. “What were you doing at that house anyway?”

  Clarice didn’t reply.

  “Why have you been harassing the people around town?”

  He must’ve been following Clarice the whole day. The time for amateur hour to end. She needed to start acting smart.

  Matthews asked, “Why are you here in Jasper?”

  That was a good question, Clarice replied in her mind. It was obvious that her family didn’t want her.

  Matthews kept his eyes locked on her. “You’re after something. What is it?”

  “You finished?” Clarice snapped. She instantly regretted opening her mouth.

  Matthews pursed his lips.

  He turned back to the road.

  BAM!

  Something smashed into the front of the car, splashing a little bit of blood across the windshield.

  Matthews hit the brakes.

  Clarice lurched forward.

  The squad car came to a sliding stop in the middle of the road.

  Matthews held the steering wheel tightly.

  Heart racing, Clarice sat up. “What was that?”

  Matthews looked back at her. His eyes were wide and alarmed.

  Clarice turned back as well. Looking through the back window, she saw the hump of fur in the middle of the road. It was a small deer. Its stomach rose and fell with every desperate breath. The amber glow from the taillights painted it in a red hue.

  Matthews cursed under his breath. He got out of the car, not bothering to close the driver-side door. Running one hand up his scalp, he slowly approached the dying animal. He stood over it and looked down.

  Clarice could only see the back of Matthews’s spiffy police uniform.

  The doe twitched at his feet.

  Clarice’s stomach dropped. Sh
e looked into the deer’s black eye. It captured the red hue of the taillights.

  “Hey,” she yelled.

  Matthews didn’t respond.

  “Hey!”

  He looked over his shoulder, eyes wet with tears. “I can’t save it.”

  Clarice sensed his hopelessness. “I know.”

  Matthews wiped his eyes.

  “It’s in a lot of pain…” Clarice said.

  Matthews turned his harrowing gaze back to the broken animal.

  “Matthews,” Clarice called out.

  A desperate look fell over his face.

  Clarice continued. “Make it quick.”

  Matthews sniffed. He boxed his shoulders and drew out his pistol. He aimed it at the animal.

  A moment passed.

  He didn’t shoot.

  He wiped one of his sweaty palms on his thighs. He aimed at the animal again, took a deep breath, and squeezed the trigger.

  The gunshot echoed throughout the single-lane road and surrounding wilderness.

  Much like a robot, Matthews holstered his pistol, grabbed the legs of the deer, and dragged it to the side of the road.

  His expression was distant. He walked back to the cop car and started to sit down. He stopped himself and examined the front bumper. The damage couldn’t be that bad, as he only gave it a brief glance before sitting in the driver seat.

  He shut the door and sat in silence.

  The car didn’t move.

  Clarice scooted closer to the separation plastic between the front and back seats. She spoke softly. “Are you okay?”

  Matthews kept his hand on the steering wheel, perfectly at the three and nine o'clock positions. “I’ve never killed anything before.”

  “You didn’t have a choice,” Clarice comforted him.

  Matthews put the car back in drive and headed to the station. Neither of them spoke.

  The Jasper police station was at the center of town. At full capacity, it had roughly twenty people working there. Matthews passed through the gate and escorted Clarice in through the back door.

  One lady worked dispatch, and another sat at the processing desk. Rows of desks sat in the bullpen. Most of them were empty. Clarice would’ve thought they’d put on more staff members since the Sunshine shooting, but then she remembered that to them, it was just a murder/suicide. Case closed.

  They took Clarice’s fingerprints and information. Not having her own house, she used her parents’ address. It was the same as her driver’s license. They slapped her with a humiliating five-hundred-dollar fine. Clarice only had three hundred and forty-two dollars and thirty-eight cents to her name.

  They took off the cuffs and put her in the holding cell. The one other person was a drunken old man. He was hunched over and swaying lightly. His beard was shaggy and grey. The stench of body odor radiated off of his greasy clothes. He mumbled under his breath.

  Clarice took a seat on the corner of the bench. She leaned against the wall, put her feet flat on the bench, and pulled her knees close to her chest. Air puffed up her cheeks. She would have to call her father at some point. The thought of it made her sick. Here she was, once the golden child of the family, messing up again.

  “You’ve seen it.” The drunkard's accent was thick and full of twang.

  “I’m sorry?” Clarice asked.

  The drunkard gave her a sidelong glance. “The terror.”

  Unexpected chills raced up Clarice’s body. “Who are you?”

  “It’s coming,” the drunkard said and cackled. “It’s already here.”

  The lights flickered briefly.

  She went to ask the drunkard a question.

  His head was sloped down.

  Light snores escaped his parted lips.

  He was asleep.

  Clarice walked to the door. “Excuse me.”

  The cop seated by the door turned back to her.

  Clarice said. “I’m ready for my phone call.”

  The cop opened the door and led her to the wall phone. She called her father.

  It rang and rang.

  Clarice anxiously tapped her finger against the phone’s plastic casing.

  Eventually, someone picked up.

  “Hey,” Clarice said. “It’s me. I got into some trouble and need some help.”

  The end of the line was quiet.

  “You’re in jail?” her mother asked plainly. “My caller ID seems to think so.”

  Clarice pinched the bridge of her nose. She was hoping that her father would’ve been the one to pick up. “Mom, I--”

  “You’re thirty-two years old, and this is what your life is. I knew you coming home would be nothing but trouble--”

  Clarice pulled the phone away from her ear. She fought to keep her composure. She thought back to a time when she and mother had a relationship. Something about puberty changed that. Two independent-minded people living in the same house and trying to control each other was never a good thing.

  Hannah’s lecture went for a solid four minutes. Clarice reverted back to the mindset of a helpless child. Eventually, after ignoring all the noise, Clarice put the phone back to her ear in time to hear her mother’s final statement. “... how the hell did you turn out so screwed up?”

  Clarice kept her tone flat and submissive. “Can Dad come bail me out?”

  “... Yeah. I’ll get him,” Hannah said, winded from her lecture.

  “Thanks,” Clarice replied and hung up.

  She turned back to the young cop. He had nice brows, gentle eyes, and a mustache that didn’t quite fit his face. “Family trouble?”

  “I love a good homecoming,” Clarice replied dryly.

  The cop smiled. The crow’s feet sprouted out of the corners of his eyes. “You’re that girl, ain’t cha?”

  Clarice gave him a deadpan look. “Enlighten me.”

  “Eastbrook Community College. Maybe a decade ago. You stopped the shooter.”

  Color returned to Clarice’s face. She smiled shyly. “I’m surprised anyone still remembers.”

  “I saw you on the news,” the cop said, getting excited. He glanced behind him to make sure one was watching and listening, then spoke quietly. “I remember seeing your picture on the news. I said, ‘Dang, that chick is bad-A, man!’”

  “Boyle!” A deep voice yelled.

  The cop instantly shut up.

  A burly cop, built like a minotaur, strutted into the hall. His tight uniform was like a second skin, and his hair was a series of small grey spikes with a widow’s peak. At six-foot-three, he dwarfed Clarice and Officer Boyle.

  “Put her back in the cell,” he commanded.

  “Yes, Sergeant,” Boyle said dutifully and led Clarice back to the holding cell.

  “Who's that?” Clarice whispered.

  Boyle kept his eyes ahead and his expression neutral. “Sergeant Walkens. We call him Big Walkens.”

  Boyle opened the gate to the holding cell. Clarice stepped inside. She flashed him a tiny smile. “See you around, Boyle.”

  The cop nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

  He walked back to his post.

  Big Walkens passed by the cell. Looking down at Clarice, he smirked and kept walking.

  Clarice reclaimed her spot on the corner of the bench. The drunk was still hunched over, but now he had drool in his beard.

  Clarice couldn’t stop her smile. It was nice to know someone remembered what happened nine years ago.

  She was in class at the time. It was around 2pm, and everyone was drowsy. Always a lover of nature, Clarice sat next to the window.

  She was a sophomore and taking an economics class. She might be running her father’s ranch one day, so she thought it would be smart to get a degree in business. She wasn’t passionate about managing money and resources, but it seemed like a good skill to have if she wanted to get a job in the “real” world. Her idea of the “real” had vastly changed since then, and it started with the day Dustin Wesley showed up at school with a gun. Two guns actual
ly, and cargo pants full of ammo magazines.

  Clarice remembered seeing him around campus. He sat alone most of the time, listening to music on his headphones with his hood over his head. No one engaged him. He just had that sort of aura that kept people away. It wasn’t until he came into school that day that Clarice saw it was an issue.

  As the professor skipped through a PowerPoint presentation, Clarice rested her chin on the palm of her hand and looked out the window. Clouds brushed across the sky like pulled cotton. Tree leaves shimmered on their rich brown branch. The spring air was desirable, and Clarice missed early-morning horse rides at her family’s ranch.

  A dinky sedan pulled into the parking lot. It parked there for a moment before Dustin stepped out. He was a very skinny man with a pasty complexion and scruffy chin beard. His head was buzzed down to his scalp. An oversized black hoodie cloaked his body. His small head and long neck stuck out like an ostrich. Something His weighed down baggy cargo pants. There was nice police on his laced-up combat boots. It wasn’t his attire that drew Clarice’s suspicion, as that’s how Dustin dressed everyday. It was the thing on his back. It wasn’t human.

  Clarice’s eyes started to fall shut as she looked his way. Pressure squeezed down her forehead. Her tongue started to tapping the roof of her mouth instinctively as if an alarm was going off. The lecturer’s voice turned into hollow noise.

  Clarice shut her eyes. She’d seen similar things before, but none this big. When she felt the pressure leave her, she opened her eyes. Dustin was out of sight. Clarice heard the professor clearly.

  The student next to her asked if she was okay.

  Clarice’s face was ghastly pale. She got up, and quietly moved around the room. She headed for the door.

  “Miss Holburg,” the professor said as Clarice reached for the doorknob. “Did something I say offend you?”

  Clarice turned back with a weary smile. The whole class looked her way. Most could care less about what was going on. “No, sir. I just need to use the restroom.”