Kevin O'Brien - One Last Scream

Switching on his cell phone again, he slipped it through the narrow opening and then glanced into the room. The blue light was just strong enough so he could see, past a haze of dust in the air, a cot and a bare metal bookcase against the wall. An old army blanket lay in a heap on the dirty floor. But he couldn’t see anything else from where he stood at the doorway. The light wasn’t strong enough. He couldn’t even tell how big the room was.

Turning around, George made his way back through the darkness and debris until he reached the basement stairs. He hurried up to the kitchen, and then out the door. It felt good to breathe fresh air again. But he still had that awful sooty taste in his mouth. He ran to the car, popped open the hood, and took out the jack.

He needed to get a better look inside that little room in the basement. As much as he didn’t want to think like someone who abducted and murdered young women, George could see that little room as a perfect dungeon. Maybe Lon liked to hold on to his toys for a while before he grew tired of them. What better place than that fallout shelter with the cot and a blanket?

Inside the house again, he headed back down the basement stairs with the jack. George switched on his cell phone once more as he weaved around the wreckage and maneuvered his way to the bomb shelter door. He had a tough time bracing the jack in a horizontal position, but finally got it to stick. He worked the lever, and listened to the heavy door creak open wider and wider. But then the lever started to resist and buckle, and no matter how hard George pushed, the door didn’t move another inch.

The gap was a little over a foot wide. Stepping over the jack, George squeezed through the narrow opening. He prayed the jack wouldn’t collapse on him. He imagined himself trapped in this tiny room, in this desolate house in the middle of nowhere.

He brushed against something with his foot, and heard a tinny, clanking noise. George directed the cell phone light toward the floor, and saw at least a dozen empty tin cans. He checked out the labels: most of them were for a cat food called Purrfect Kitty. There were a few empty cans of Del Monte brand sliced peaches, too. George also noticed a plastic bucket in the corner, tipped over on its side. There was nothing else in the tiny room, just the cot, the barren metal bookcase, and a discarded blanket. The only new discoveries he’d made were these lousy tin cans and a bucket, hardly worth all his painstaking effort to get inside the place for a better look

He seemed to be chasing after nothing. Hell, maybe it was indeed just a lousy coincidence those girls had started disappearing once the Schlessingers had moved here.

George poked at the blanket with his foot. Suddenly a rat scurried out from under the folds.

“Shit!” he hissed, dropping his cell phone. The light stayed on just long enough for him to see the rodent crawl out the gap in the doorway. Then everything went black.

George tried to catch his breath, but he couldn’t. A panic swept through him. He thought he’d be able to see a very faint light through the doorway opening, but no. He couldn’t see a damn thing, not even his hand in front of his face.

Standing there, paralyzed by the dark, he heard a strange buckling noise. It sounded like the jack ready to give out. The big, heavy door made another creaking sound.

“Oh, Jesus,” George whispered. He knew the phone had dropped somewhere near the bookcase. Blindly, he waved his hand around until he touched the metal shelf. He crouched down and started patting the floor. “Shit, where is it?” he muttered. “God, please…”

His hand brushed against the phone, and it slid across the floor. “Damn it,” he growled. He anxiously felt around under the bookcase. Then something stung his finger. George snapped his hand back. “What the hell….”

He wondered if it was another rat. But this was more like a pinprick.

Behind him, he heard the door giving out another yawn.

Shifting around, his knee touched something on the floor. George reached down and found the cell phone. He switched it off, and then on again. The light came on once more. “Thank God,” he murmured.

He looked at his wounded index finger. It was bleeding.

Crouching down close to the floor, he used the cell phone light to check under the metal bookcase. He saw the pin sticking out on the back of something that looked like a name tag. He reached for it, carefully, so he wouldn’t stab himself again. But he must have knocked it farther back against the wall. He had to squeeze most of his arm under the bookcase until his fingertips finally brushed against the badge, or whatever it was. Clasping it between his fingers, he slid his hand out from under the case.

He shined the light on it. “Oh, Jesus…”

It was the kind of name tag waitresses wear. This one was green with white indented lettering that said YOUR SERVER IS NANCY RAE.

George didn’t need to look at the photocopies he’d made. He remembered Nancy Rae Keller, the talented pianist and part-time waitress, who had disappeared one Thursday night in March 2002 after finishing work at a Corvallis restaurant.

According to her former teacher, Nancy Rae had had beautiful red hair.

A loud groan emitted from the fallout shelter door. The jack buckled under the pressure.

George lunged toward the opening, slamming into the door just as the jack gave way. The device snapped out of place and flew into the pile of debris in the outside room. George was halfway through the opening when he felt the door move. It scraped against his leg, and he winced at the pain. But he didn’t stop until he’d made it out on the other side of the big, heavy door. And all the while, he’d kept his cell phone and Nancy Rae’s name tag firmly in his grasp.

He knew he’d hurt himself. No doubt his leg was bleeding. But that didn’t matter right now. He’d gotten out.

And in a way, after five long years, so had Nancy Rae.

The Schlessinger ranch-July 2004

She sat on her bed, painting her toenails-Sassy Scarlet. Her tabby, Neely, was curled up beside her. It was still pretty hot out, so she had the box fan in the window. A U2 song played softly on her boom box. Annabelle wore cutoffs and a sleeveless T-shirt. Her black hair was pulled back in a ponytail.

She had a friend from school staying over tonight.

Annabelle hoped to chat a bit with Sandra. But she had to wait first, until her father finished with Sandra down in the basement. He’d been at her now for about a half hour.

At last, Annabelle heard him clearing the phlegm from his throat and lumbering up the stairs to the second floor. He passed her room without looking in, and continued on to his bedroom.

Annabelle shoved Neely off her bed, then got to her feet. From her bedroom, she peered into her parents’ room. Her father couldn’t see her, but in a darkened window across from her parents’ double bed, she caught his reflection. He was wearing a T-shirt and work pants. He plopped down on the bed, then lit a cigarette. In a few minutes, he’d go take a shower and wash Sandra off.

Slipping on a pair of flip-flops, she snuck out of her room, and down the stairs. As she passed through the kitchen, she got a waft of her father’s body odor, still lingering from when he’d passed through just minutes ago. He must have really worked up a sweat down in the basement. Annabelle paused for a moment, as she heard the pipes squeaking and the shower starting in the upstairs bathroom.

She got another dose of that musky stench as she started down the basement stairs. But at least it was cooler down in the cellar. In the laundry room, she grabbed a bath towel from on top of the dryer. Carrying it into the furnace room, she pulled on the string for the overhead light.