John Manning - The Killing Room

Just beyond the window, standing in the bright sunshine on the grassy lawn, was Beatrice. Her long dark hair and filmy white dress blew in the wind. She was beckoning to them.

“Can we trust her?” Karen asked.

Paula wasn’t sure. Carolyn had seemed to think her spirit was benevolent. But she couldn’t know for sure.

Just then the banging on the door grew in greater intensity, and at last a fist came smashing through the heavy wood. Chelsea let out a scream.

There was no more time for delay. “Take the children out the window,” Paula shouted to Linda. “Go with Beatrice!”

Immediately Linda was pushing the children across the room. Chelsea ran in that direction, too.

“Let the children go first, Chelsea!” Paula commanded.

The girl relented, shaking her hands in frustration. Paula watched as first Callie and then Zac stepped over the windowsill and out onto the lawn. Linda followed, just as the great oak door buckled inward, broken off its hinges, crashing onto the floor.

And standing there was David Cooke, his chest and neck riddled with gaping dry holes made from gunshots. In his hands he held a length of rope.

“Go!” Paula shouted, backing up herself toward the window.

Chelsea was scrambling to get out, but in her terror, she slipped, falling backward on her butt. In that second, David Cooke lunged, grabbing hold of Karen by her right arm. He tackled her onto the ground, quickly and easily wrapping the rope around her neck. He began to strangle her. Karen’s eyes bulged, her mouth open as she tried to breathe. Her small hands clutched at the rope around her neck but to no avail.

Paula jumped onto the maniac’s back and began pummeling him with her fists.

“Help me!” she called over to Chelsea, who was once again attempting to step out of the window.

“Help me get him off of her!” Paula screamed. “Please!”

Chelsea looked back. For a second she hesitated. One foot was outside the window.

Paula was struggling now to push David Cooke off Karen. Her girlfriend’s face was turning blue.

“Help me!” she called again to Chelsea.

The girl lifted her leg back over the sill and ran to her cousin. Both of them shoved. Paula willed every muscle in her body to come to her aid. She let loose with a primal scream and pushed as hard as she could. With Chelsea pushing beside her, they were able to move the brute. It was just the slightest movement, but it was enough for his grip to loosen on the rope, enabling Karen to gulp down some air.

“Once more!” Paula shouted, and they pushed the creature again. This time he moved a fraction of an inch more, and Karen, small and agile, was able to wiggle out from under him.

“Get out of here!” Paula yelled. Karen, though woozy, managed to get to her feet and stumble over to the window.

Paula and Chelsea were fast on her heels. Paula practically threw Karen out on to the lawn, then turned to do the same to Chelsea. But by now David Cooke was on his feet-and on them. Paula felt his cold fingers brush her neck. With his other hand he was reaching for Chelsea. But Paula was just a little quicker than her cousin. She was able to pull away from the brute.

No such luck for Chelsea.

Paula watched in horror as David Cooke, enraged now, grabbed Chelsea in his dead hands and lifted her up over his head. With speed and strength that Paula didn’t believe possible, he tore Chelsea’s right arm off her shoulder, then her left. The girl screamed as blood spurted everywhere. Then the madman let out a loud roar and tore Chelsea in half, splitting her just above the waist. He tossed the bottom half of her body to the floor and raised the armless top half at Paula.

He was tossing the bloody stump at her when she leapt from the window. Out on the lawn Paula heard the sickening thud of her cousin’s remains hitting the glass.

Douglas peered out of the door of the library into the corridor.

“I’m sure I heard something,” he said.

Carolyn looked from him back to Uncle Howie, who sat in his chair with his hands folded in his lap.

“David has probably revived,” she said to the old man. “He may be terrifying them in the parlor even as we speak. You must tell us what you know.”

“Yes, Uncle Howie,” Douglas said, closing the door and turning to face his uncle. “For God’s sake, no more stonewalling.”

He had finally admitted to himself that his uncle knew more than he was saying, that maybe in fact Uncle Howie had been suppressing information all along. Information that might have saved so many of the people who had died from this long curse. People like his father.

At the moment, his biggest worry was for the people he had left behind in the parlor, especially Zac and Callie. Douglas had taken the rifle with him. He knew bullets couldn’t stop David Cooke, but they could slow him down. The people in the parlor were therefore defenseless. He had seen the madman’s body sprawled on the floor of the study before he’d found Carolyn and Uncle Howie here in the library, and he saw that Carolyn had taken the knife. But Douglas knew it wouldn’t be long before the zombie was on its feet again, and finding another weapon wouldn’t be difficult for it. Even its bare hands were surely weapon enough. Douglas feared that the sounds he’d heard a moment ago had come from the direction of the parlor. Who else, he wondered, was going to die?

“You’ve got to speak,” Douglas shouted at his uncle. “How many more deaths? How many more deaths before you tell us what you know?”

“Are you somehow prevented from telling us?” Carolyn asked. “Is the force of that room so great?”

“It doesn’t matter what I know,” Uncle Howie said. “Even if I told you everything, we couldn’t prevent the killings. My hope was always to find a force greater than it was, something that could overpower it. That was the only way we could end the power of that room. Because there is no appealing to it. It is irrational. It is fueled by instinct and the simplest of emotions, like anger and fear and rage and hunger.”

“So are you saying that you can tell us,” Douglas asked, getting close to the old man’s face, “but that you choose not to, because you think it’s pointless?”

“I’m sorry, my little hoodlum,” Uncle Howie said. “Sorry that I have let you down.”

They were startled by a sound from the hallway. They all tensed. Douglas moved closer to the door, brandishing the rifle.

He listened. Footsteps. Two people. It was not the heavy clomping of David Cooke.

Still, both he and Carolyn pointed their rifles at the door as it opened.

But who was there on the other side caused both of them to gasp out loud.

Uncle Howie shouted, “Jeanette!”

It was Jeanette Young, with Michael O’Toole close behind her.

“Hello, Uncle Howard,” she said calmly. She moved her eyes over to Douglas and then to Carolyn. “Cousin Douglas. Miss Cartwright. It’s good to see you both again, though I wish the circumstances were more pleasant.”

“Dear God,” Uncle Howie exclaimed.

“How is this possible?” Douglas asked.

Jeanette smiled. She still looked frail, and she walked with some stiffness and difficulty. But she seemed in full control of all of her senses. Michael rested a hand on her shoulder for support.

“I awoke this morning and was able to speak,” she said. “The veil that had so long separated me from the rest of the world was lifted. I could speak, I could move, I could communicate.”

“It was a miracle,” Michael said.

Jeanette sighed. “I knew right away that the curse had been lifted, that someone had survived a night in that room.” Her face saddened. “We came over here at once, thinking we’d find the house in celebration. I did my best to explain to Michael all of the terrible details on the drive over here. But what we found was no celebration.”