The Reemergence
BLACKNESS FILLS Amanda McCrae’s vision. She’s lightheaded and her mind swims with confusing thoughts. The acrid odor of soured trash churns her gut. A clock ticks away the seconds. Cicadas scream and crickets chirp in the shadows. A classical song plays through a static filled speaker. Yet, in an eerie kind of way, it’s quiet and still. No movement. No talking. It’s like the empty, dry stillness before a lightning strike.
She winces as the left side of her head pounds with each pulse. What happened? Is she dreaming? She must be, right? Her drumming headache says otherwise.
She remembers standing in the kitchen with her car keys in hand and being ready to leave. She called for their daughter to “hurry up,” but Sarah never answered. Something stirred behind her and pulled her attention just before everything turned to black. Her memory after that is vague and full of drowsiness. She does not remember eating or drinking much but does remember the masked man inserting an IV into her arm. She tried asking him questions, but he chose to remain silent. She took notice though of how his demeanor changed when she questioned him about her husband and daughter. It was as if he were clutching a secret.
She tries to swallow a pool of saliva which has formed around her gums and teeth. Her eyes flash wide at the realization of a gag pulled tight between her lips. It’s a wad of cotton material. Either a shirt or sock.
Dim light rushes her vision as it pierces the black hood encasing her head. She can see through the thin material enough to decipher her surroundings.
Above her hangs a light bulb with a beaded pull chain. Straight ahead is a wooden counter made of plywood and two by fours. A round, white clock hangs at eye level from a nail. With a good squint she can see that the hands read 1:40. Whether a.m. or p.m., she doesn’t know. An array of tools lies scattered across the counter. A rusty pair of pliers, spade shovel, a large handsaw, hammer, a vise, and . . . a STIHL chainsaw.
She jerks her shoulders in desperate attempts for freedom. She almost loses her balance as the metal chair tilts too far to one side. Warm tears trickle down her cheeks. Beneath her is a dirt floor. The chains are cold against her flesh and like a snake squeezing the life from its prey, they cinch tighter with each move she makes. She stops before her wrists and ankles begin to throb. She wants to scream, but all she can manage is a useless, muffled cry.
Exasperated and spent, she stops to collect her breath. She watches as it passes from her nostrils and pierces through the hood with small white clouds. A chill scatters across her body. She can feel her adrenaline begin to wane. With her breath now gathered, she sits and listens.
The bulb above flickers and hums.
The insects are quiet, but the classical tune continues to play. A cold draft meanders about the room and caresses her cheeks with ghostly fingers. It seeps through her hood the way spirits often blend through doors.
She feels her pulse quicken. The aching knot along her skull pounds once more. A heaviness weighs upon her chest and suffocates her breath. She blinks hard.
Something stirs behind her.
It could be a rat or may be the man’s boots shifting across the ground.
More movement. He’s here.
Has he been here the whole time? Watching her from the shadows?
The sound is out of her range of sight, but she tries anyhow. First, she twists her neck and looks over her shoulders. That doesn’t work, so she tries angling her head backwards to her spine like a possessed soul would. That doesn’t work either. Only blackness and thin patches of dismal light fill her vision. The chains have tightened. She returns her head to a normal position.
The horrible stench of soiled trash turns her gut once more. A wave of nausea begins to travel up her esophagus. She can’t vomit. She’ll choke. She fights hard to control the sickening feeling. She takes deep, calming breaths to keep the vomit down.
As her heart races at a violent pace, she hears him stir. He’s edging closer.
A plastic wrapper twist open and is followed by the sound of teeth crushing a piece of hard candy. The crunching stops. Hot breath spreads across the back of her neck followed by a vicious aroma of peppermint. As if his breath carries a contagious virus, a deep, dark fear unlike anything she’s ever known penetrates her soul. His warm, minty breath continues to crawl about her flesh.
She squeezes her eyes and tightens her jaw, biting hard onto the gag. The nightmare has to end. Any moment she’ll awaken. She has to. This can’t be happening.
She feels him step away.
A creaky metal hinge pierces the air and causes her to flinch. She hears his hands sort through metal nails or screws. He finishes and shuts the door which squeaks with a tight, rusty growl.
She tries hard to calm her quick breaths escaping through her nostrils. Her lips are becoming chilled and chapped. She wants to lick them to ease the discomfort but can’t because of the gag.
A large, calloused hand plops upon the base of her neck.
Her heart starts, and her shoulders tense at the sudden touch.
She whimpers through the gag, but the owner of the hand is silent and still.
“Pwweeezzzee,” her muffled voice says with tears.
Being gentle, the hand works its way up her neck. It’s goes beneath the hood, one finger at a time, to the back of her head where the gag is secured. Another hand appears, and together the hands work the gag loose. It drops to the floor.
Neither of them says a word. The music continues to play.
She hears him step away and retreat into the darkness. She can feel him standing out of sight, only inches from her back. Watching.
“Do you know who I am?” his deep, contorted voice cuts the air.
He doesn’t sound right. It’s like he’s purposely speaking in a different voice.
She shakes her head.
“I removed the gag for a reason. Speak.”
She gulps, “No. No.”
“Good. That’s good.”
She hears him move and watches as he crosses in front of her. He angles for the counter where the tools are. He’s dressed in a red long sleeve t-shirt with blue jean pants, and he wears a navy-blue ball cap. With his wide and well sculpted back to her, he asks, “Do you smell that?”
The aroma of peppermint has faded and left only the odor of trash, so she answers, “Yes.”
“Please, elaborate. Yes, what? What is it you smell? Be honest.”
She thinks for a moment, “I-I-I smell trash. Soiled, soured trash.”
He clanks a metal tool and wags his head, “It’s more than trash. It’s symbolic.”
“Symbolic?”
He combs through more tools, “You do know the meaning? Surely, you are not that dense.”
“It has a double meaning. The trash symbolizes something else.”
He stops his searching, straightens his spine, and cracks his neck before pulling in a deep breath. “Excellent. Very good, Mrs. McCrae. You’re not as ignorant as you almost lead me to fear. You should know . . .” He pauses as he holds up the pliers and gives them a good look, “I despise stupidity.”
The man angles to the left and disappears within the corner shadow.
“The odor is symbolic to your sin. It’s symbolic to the stench within your heart. It is the aroma, which day after day, your sinful soul offers to the almighty. A sickening, wicked, abomination,” he drew out the last sentence with a sharp emphasis.
She watches his silhouette as he flanks her left side and moves back behind her.
“Please, you don’t have to do this. We won’t tell. I swear.”
“Quiet. DO. NOT. BEG ME.” he says with enough force to emit spittle. He takes a breath and adds, “Sarah is better off without you and Jeremy. She’s going to love her new home.”
She notices the quick shift in his mood and says, “No. No. Leave Sarah out of this. Do whatever you want with me and Jeremy, but . . .” she almost said please again, so she transitions with, “Don’t hurt Sarah. She’s only a girl.”
Her words go unanswered for a long moment. She began to wonder if he was still behind her. Had he left through a back door without her knowing?
She waits to see if the crickets will return to their chatter, but they never do. She knows he’s still here.
The clearing of phlegm startles her.
“Why has thy countenance fallen? If thou doest well, shalt thou not be accepted? If thou doest not well, sin crouches at the door and its desire is to have you. First book of the Bible. Genesis four verse six.”
Another pause.
“You are bound in your sin, Mrs. McCrae, and as these chains confine your body, so do the chains of sin confine your heart. You’re helpless. Hopeless.”
Her shoulders jolt as the sobs return.
The man continues, “The wages of sin is death. Your payment is due Mrs. McCrae. However, I will be generous enough to give you two choices. A dilemma if you will. An ultimatum. Though, I shall warn you . . . you need choose wisely if you wish to save your daughter’s life.”
A warm sensation spreads across her groin followed by the foul odor of urine. She sniffles and attempts to quiet her sobs.
“You can offer me your life this very moment. Your life for your daughter’s. That’s the first choice. Life is all about choices you know. With every choice comes a consequence. If you do well, you’ll reap a good harvest. If you do bad . . .” she hears him click his tongue against his teeth. “That’s where I come in. Remember, sin crouches at your door, and is waiting to pounce. Now that we have your first choice on the table, are you ready for the second?”
She doesn’t answer. Her mind is too scattered to gather a clear thought.
“Mrs. McCrae?”
She swallows hard and says, “Yes.”
“Option two. I took you two days ago in case you were not sure. Judging by the reports coming through the scanner, authorities are aware of what happened. It’ll soon be on every news outlet across the Country. Everyone will know your name. They’ll see the family photos, and their hearts will be gripped by your daughter’s blue eyes as Nancy Grace waxes poetic about all of the children disappearing in New England.
“Now, my second choice which I present to you is this: Wait and see if the authorities can find you within a hundred minutes. I’ll give you until . . . say, three thirty. If they haven’t found you by then, you’ll die and possibly your daughter too. High risk. High reward. It’s your choice. Either I can kill you now, or you can wait to see if the idiots can find you within a hundred minutes.”
“What about Jeremy?”
“My dear . . .” he says with a scoff, “He’s already paid his dues. He’s not a part of the choice. This only involves you and Sarah.”
His words were like a ram’s head to the gut. Fear courses through her veins as reality begins to settle. All the talk and gossip on Facebook, the news stories, the detective shows, the missing children flyers posted around town . . . this is the man who’s responsible for so many murders and disappearances over the years. This is the man they call Morty. The New England Killer. The Death Angel.
Taking inventory of her situation, she combs through his words. Would she offer her life for her daughter’s? The slight hesitation in her answer floods her soul with a heavy dose of guilt, pulling her heart to the grave. What if he’s lying? What if it’s just his way of getting permission to kill her and ease his guilt in some twisted way? She can’t allow him to kill her now. No. No way. She has to go with the option that buys her the most time. She must stay alive as long as possible and she has to find her daughter. She has to escape or survive long enough for the police to find her.
Tick. Tick. Tick. The clock holds her attention hostage for three precious seconds.
“I’m waiting, Amanda McCrae.”
“I’ll go with the second choice and take our chances with the
police.”
He doesn’t respond.
After a beat, she adds, “That was the other choice, right?’
“Yes, oh yes. High risk. High reward. That was a choice. If that’s what you choose, then I’ll give you until half past three o’clock. That’s a little less than two hours from now. Considering my placement of the clue, it’ll depend—”
“Depend on what?”
He gives a thin chuckle and says, “How quick miss Laurie Daniels finds the clue.”
“Who’s that?”
“She’s the detective who’ll be investigating your husband’s murder, you and your daughter’s disappearance, and quite possibly. . . your violent deaths. Remember, with every choice comes a consequence. A reaping of the seed that was sown.”
Her lips tremble at his words.
Tears slip across her lips. She licks them away.
“But first, before we waste any more precious time, I’m going to need your hair.”
“My hair? Why?”
“I like my victims bald, plus, I may use it later. I need all the disguise I can get. Oh, and I’ll need a tooth from you as well to add to my collection.”
Amanda McCrae begins to cry and tremble.
The classical music grows in volume, spitting out chords through the staticky speaker.
A sharp click followed by a loud buzzing sound emits behind her. The sound grows closer. A large hand spreads atop her head and takes hold of the hood. The hood slides off. Amanda McCrae keeps her eyes clinched tight. The buzzing of hair clippers penetrates her ears. Classical music continues to play behind the buzz.
As the hair clippers scratch and dig across her scalp, she squints open an eyelid and peeks at the clock.
1:50.
She has to make it to three thirty. Whatever it takes.
Did she make the right choice? Can this detective named Laurie Daniels find whatever it is the man has left for her?
Her and her daughter’s lives now depend on a woman she’s never met.
She pulls in a deep breath as the clippers eat away clumps of hair. The man brushes the trimmings to the ground.
One hundred minutes.
Tick. Tick. Tick.