John Manning - The Killing Room

He wondered if his father and Chelsea were dead.

Curiosity was beginning to gnaw away at his fear. What had happened out there? Were bodies strewn everywhere? How long should he wait in here?

A thought occurred to him. Maybe it’s over. Maybe I’ve really survived the slaughter.

After all, he reasoned, when the slaughters had happened before, not everyone in the family was killed. There were always survivors. The forces that controlled the room wouldn’t want everyone to die. They needed someone who would keep the line going, providing the next generation of victims. Ryan began to think that he really had lucked out. Maybe everyone was dead, but he had survived.

Slowly, stealthily, he leaned forward, pressing his forehead against the closet door and inching it open just enough to get a glimpse of the hallway.

Nothing. He saw nothing out of the ordinary.

I could make a dash for it, he thought. Out of the closet, down the hall, down the stairs, across the foyer, out the front door.

Of course, family members had been killed many miles away from Youngsport. Distance was no guarantee of safety. But if the slaughter was really over, Ryan could rest assured no one would be coming after him. He could forget all about the room.

At least for another ten years.

And if Douglas was dead, maybe the others were dead, too. Maybe even Uncle Howard. That would leave Ryan the sole heir to the family fortune. At that very moment, he might already be one of the richest men in the world.

That alone was enough to get him to stand up and ease his way out of the closet.

He listened. Not a sound. It had to be over.

He took a step down the corridor. The landing overlooking the foyer wasn’t far ahead. Stealthily, he approached the banister and looked over. Blood was smeared across the marble. The suit of armor had fallen on its face. But the place was empty and quiet.

He took a deep breath and practically threw himself down the stairs. He ran as fast as he could, taking two steps at a time. When he reached the bottom, however, he lost his footing, slipping in the pool of glossy blood on the floor. He went down on his butt, the blood splashing and staining his white shirt. Panicked, he stood and tried to regain traction, but had the sense he was running in place, like a cartoon character. Only with great effort did he push himself across the foyer to the front door.

But it was locked.

“No,” he whispered, spinning around, glancing around the room to make sure he was still alone.

He was. He breathed a sigh of relief.

He’d have to exit by the one of the other doors. He ruled out the terrace door. The trail of blood led that that way. Who knew what he’d find in the dining room or kitchen? He’d have to go out through the side door, accessed through the library.

Carefully he made his way across the foyer. The doors to the parlor were closed. He noticed blood on the doorknobs. Shivering, he headed down the hall. But as he passed the study, he heard a sound.

It was a man.

And he was crying.

Ryan peered in through the half-open doors. He spied Uncle Howard, standing over a sofa, crying softly as he looked down. Ryan couldn’t see what he was looking at.

“Uncle Howard?” Ryan whispered.

The old man’s eyes flickered up to him, but he did not reply.

Carefully Ryan stepped into the room. He walked around to the front of the couch. Sprawled there was Dean, in a blood-soaked shirt. He was dead.

“Oh, man,” Ryan said.

“He was a good man,” Uncle Howard said in a thick voice. “Perhaps the best of the lot. Hardworking. Decent. A good father and husband.”

Ryan just swallowed, staring down at his dead cousin.

“How many more?” Uncle Howard asked, looking off into the distance. “How many more will you claim?”

“Is it over?” Ryan asked. “Have they killed everybody else?”

“I don’t know,” Uncle Howard replied. With difficulty he moved away toward the desk that sat at the far end of the room. Bracing himself against it, he let out a long sigh. “I took refuge in the library when I heard the screaming begin. When the house grew silent, I came in here and found Dean. Someone had left his body here. I don’t know what we will find in the rest of the house.”

“We’ve got to get out,” Ryan said.

The old man just shook his head. “If we’re meant to die, there’s nowhere we could run. You’re too young to remember your Uncle Ernest. But surely you’ve heard the stories. He ran all the way to Wisconsin, but they found him. No, I’m staying right here. If they come for me, there’s nothing I can do.” He leveled his old eyes at Ryan. “And the same holds for you.”

Once again Ryan felt the old man’s imputation of cowardice and betrayal. He looked away.

Uncle Howard took a deep breath. “The house has been quiet for a while now. But I doubt the killing is complete.”

“Who’s doing it?” Ryan asked. “It’s not the guy with the pitchfork. I saw another guy in the foyer. He was attacking Douglas.” He rather enjoyed telling his uncle that his favorite nephew had been assaulted.

“Douglas?” the old man asked. “Oh, dear God.”

“It was a guy I’d never heard about before,” Ryan told him. “A man with a scar on his face.”

“Scar?” Howard Young seemed puzzled. “I can’t imagine who that might be. There was no man with a scar on his face…” He seemed to think of something. “But that man Carolyn was involved with…what was his name? David Cooke. The reports I obtained on him revealed that he had a scar on his face. Could it be the same?”

Ryan looked at him strangely. “But why would some guy Carolyn was involved with be attacking this family?”

“The powers of that room are great,” Uncle Howard said. “They can get in your mind… They can cause you to do things.” He shuddered. “If it is the same, then it means we are in greater danger than ever before.”

They heard a sound. A steady, rhythmic beat. A thud, repeated over and over.

“It sounds as if someone’s knocking on the walls,” Ryan said.

“No, listen closely.” Uncle Howard was straining to hear. “It is the sound of a knife…repeatedly stabbing the wall. Close the doors, Ryan.”

Ryan obeyed.

“As he walks,” Uncle Howard whispered, “he is stabbing the wall. The knife goes in, the knife comes out, and he takes another step toward us.”

“No,” Ryan said. He began to cry.

“He is coming for us,” the old man said.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

The sound grew ever closer.

In his mind, Ryan could see the knife cutting into the plaster of the wall. He could see the brute’s hand gripping the handle.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

He was getting closer.

“No!” Ryan cried, running behind the desk and cowering, covering his face.

Thud. Thud.

The sound stopped.

Ryan peered around the desk from between his fingers. Uncle Howard stood in front of the desk, facing the doors.

Suddenly the doors flew open.

And standing there was the man with the scarred face, knife held over his head.

Ryan screamed.

The man walked into the room, directly toward Uncle Howard.

“Go ahead,” Howard Young said. “Kill me. Be done with it.”

But the man just stood there in front of him, studying his face.

Still peering through his fingers, Ryan saw the maniac’s eyes move. They left Uncle Howard’s face and found his own. With a snarl, the beast took a step around the desk.

“No, please!” Ryan begged. “Please don’t kill me!”

The man simply sneered, raising the knife up over his head, ready to bring it down onto Ryan.

But then-

A gunshot.

Ryan watched in stunned horror and disbelief as the man staggered. Then came another shot. And another. The man swayed on his feet, though none of the shots produced any blood. They simply tore holes in his body. The man seemed bewildered by the bullets rather than pained. His eyes rolled into the back of his head. Then he collapsed, crumpling to the floor.