Chris Mooney - The Missing

'It might be Samantha Kent,' Darby said. 'No, wait, it can't be her.'

'Why not?'

'Because it says here she's been missing for over a month.'

'Look at her face.'

Darby studied the picture for a moment. 'The woman I saw, her face was thin and her hair was real long,' she said. 'Samantha Kent's face is round and she has short hair.'

'But it looks like her.'

'Kind of Darby handed the folder back and rubbed her hands on her jeans. 'What happened to her?'

'We don't know.' Manning gave her a business card. 'If you remember anything else, even the smallest detail, you can call me at this number,' he said. 'It was nice meeting you, Darby.'

Her nightmares didn't stop until about a month later. During the day, Darby rarely thought about what happened in the woods unless she happened to bump into Stacey. Avoiding her was easy enough – too easy, really. It just went to prove how they'd never really been true friends.

'Stacey said she was sorry,' Mel said. 'Why can't we go back to being friends?'

Darby shut her locker. 'You want to be friends with her, that's your business. But I'm done with her.'

One thing Darby had in common with her mother was a love of reading. Sometimes on Saturday mornings she'd join Sheila on her yard sale trips, and while her mother was busy haggling over the price of another stupid knickknack, Darby would be on the prowl for cheapo paperbacks.

Her latest find was a book called Carrie. It was the cover that had grabbed her attention: a girl's head floating above a town in flames. How cool was that? Darby lay on her bed, deep in the part where Carrie was going to the prom (only the popular kids were going to play a sick, cruel joke on her) when the living room stereo kicked on and Frank Sinatra's booming voice started singing 'Come Fly with Me.' Sheila was home.

Darby glanced over at the clock on her nightstand. It was almost eight-thirty. Her mother wasn't supposed to be home until eleven or so. Sheila must have knocked off work early.

What if it isn't your mother? Darby thought. What if the man from the woods is downstairs?

No. This was the writer's fault; that stupid Stephen King had gotten her imagination all worked up. Her mother was downstairs, not the man from the woods, and Darby could prove it by simply taking a walk down the hallway to her mother's bedroom and looking out the windows at the driveway where Sheila's car would be parked.

Darby dog-eared her page and walked into the hallway. She leaned over the banister and looked into the foyer.

One dim light was on, and it was coming from the living room – probably the banker's lamp on the table next to the stereo. The kitchen lights were off. Had she turned them off on her return trip upstairs? Darby couldn't remember. Sheila had this thing about leaving lights on in empty rooms, always made it a point to say she wasn't working all these extra hours to put Lester Lightbulb through college -

A black-gloved hand gripped the downstairs banister.

Darby jerked away from the railing, her heart hammering so hard and fast she felt dizzy.

Instinct took over, and with it came an idea. Her boom box radio was set on top of her bureau, right next to the door. She turned it on, clicked her bedroom door shut and slipped inside the spare bedroom across the hall as a shadow on the stairwell grew larger.

The man from the woods was coming up the stairs.

Darby wiggled underneath the bed, over boxes of shoes and stacks of old decorating magazines. Through the three-inch gap between the dust ruffle and the carpet she saw a pair of work boots come to a stop outside her bedroom door.

Please God, let him think I'm in there listening to my music. If he went in there, she could make a run for the stairs – no, not the stairs, her mother's bedroom. The nearest phone was in her mother's bedroom. She could lock the door and call the police.

The man from the woods stood in the hall-way, deciding what to do.

Come on, go into my bedroom.

The man from the woods stepped inside the spare bedroom. Darby watched in horror as the boots came closer… closer… oh Jesus no, he was standing only a few inches from her face, the boots so close she could see and smell the grease stains.

Darby started to tremble. He knows. He knows I'm hiding under the bed -

A crude mask of stitched-together, flesh-colored strips of Ace bandages fell to the floor.

The man from the woods picked up the mask. A moment later, he walked out of the bedroom and back into the hall-way. Her bedroom door burst open to bright light and dance music.

Darby scrambled from underneath the bed and ran into the hall-way. The man from the woods was standing in her room, looking for her. She ran into her mother's bedroom and swung the bedroom door shut, catching a glimpse of the man chasing after her, a real-life Michael Myers dressed in greasy blue coveralls, his face covered by the mask of Ace bandages, his eyes and mouth hidden behind strips of black cloth.

She locked the door and then grabbed the phone from the nightstand. The man from the woods kicked the door, rattling it against the frame. Her hand was shaking as she dialed 911.

There was no dial tone.

Thump as he kicked the door. Darby tried the phone again. Still nothing.

Thump. The phone had to work, there was no reason why it shouldn't work. Thump. She flipped over the phone, and in the dull white light coming from the outside street lamps Darby saw the plug, nice and snug, in the back of the phone. Thump.

Darby jammed her finger on the receiver again and again and still no dial tone and THUMP and CRACK as the one of the door panels split open.

A jagged line ran down the panel, a foot or so above the doorknob. THUMP and CRACK and the wood split wider as a black-gloved hand reached through the hole in the door.

Sheila's blue plastic toolbox, the one she used for her small projects around the house, sat on the edge of the TV stand. Inside the toolbox full of old plastic medicine bottles holding tacks, small nails and hooks, Darby found her father's hammer, the big Stanley he had used around the house.

The hand was on the doorknob. Darby swung the hammer and hit him on the arm.

The man from the woods screamed – an ungodly howl of pain Darby had never heard another human being make. She went to hit him again and missed. He yanked his hand back through the hole.

The doorbell rang.

She dropped the hammer and opened the window. The storm window was still down. As she worked on opening it, she remembered her mother's words about what to do when you were in trouble: Never yell for help. Nobody comes running when someone yells for help, but everyone comes when someone yells fire.

Screaming coming from inside the house. The song ended and Darby heard a woman crying hysterically.

'DARBY!'

Melanie's voice, coming from the foyer.

Darby stared at the hole in the door, sweat running into her eyes as Frank Sinatra sang 'Luck Be a Lady Tonight.'

'He just wants to talk,' Melanie said. 'If you come downstairs, he promised to let me go.'

Darby didn't move.

'I want to go home,' Melanie said. 'I want to see my mother.'

Darby couldn't turn the doorknob.

Mel was sobbing. 'Please. He has a knife.'

Slowly, Darby opened the door and, crouching low, looked through the banister and into the foyer.

A knife was pressed against Melanie's cheek. Darby couldn't see the man from the woods; he was hiding around the corner, against the wall. She saw Mel's terrified face and the way her body shook as she sobbed and struggled to breathe around the arm clutched tightly around her throat.

The man from the woods moved Mel closer to the bottom steps. He whispered something in her ear.