David Wisehart - Blood Alley

Trevor said, “Claire, wait—”

“I’ve waited all my life to open this door.”

She pushed it open, and stepped inside.

The farmhouse was dark and dusty and smelled of decay.

Something died in here, Claire thought.

She powered up her cell phone and turned on the flashlight app.

So much for saving the battery.

Claire stood just inside the doorway, looking into the small, bare living room. The only furniture was an antique table and three chairs. A ratty old rug still lay on the floor. If Eldritch Fowler had owned anything of real value, it was long gone, willed or scavenged or confiscated. No doubt other travelers had stopped to explore this empty house, and taken souvenirs. It was one of the few landmarks on Blood Alley.

The kitchen entrance was across the room to her left and a hallway straight ahead. From the front doorway, the kitchen looked bare. All Claire could see in there was a rusty Franklin stove.

The hallway drew her interest. It had the deepest shadows.

If you want to find answers, look in the shadows.

She crept toward the hallway. The floorboards creaked and groaned. A rectangle of moonlight spilled in from open door behind her, forming a trapezoid of reddish light on the floor. A shadow stepped into it.

Trevor.

“Careful,” he said.

“There’s something’s here,” she answered. “Something we’re meant to see.” With her light, Claire indicated the kitchen. “You check over there.”

“We should stick together,” Dakota said from the porch.

You should be watching Ethan . Claire kept the thought to herself.

She stepped into the hallway. There was a door to her right. With her foot she eased the door open and cast her light into the bathroom. It looked like an outhouse. No sink. Just a toilet with a shelf above it that held an old-fashioned water tank.

Claire saw graffiti carved into the bathroom walls:

“Who farted?”

“I did!”

“Who died in here?”

“Your mother!”

“Go away. I’ll kill you all.”

“Prove it!”

“I just did.”

She continued to the room at the end of the hall. It appeared to be a bedroom, but there was no bed, no dresser, no closet. Remnants of a broken lamp lay in a far corner. The window glass was broken. Tatters of cloth fluttered on a curtain rod.

Something flew past the window, screeching. Large and white and fast.

Owl , she thought.

Claire crossed to the window, which looked out on the barn. A man stood by the barn door. He wore a slouch hat and a black duster.

The Highwayman.

A floorboard broke beneath her. Her right leg fell through the wood. She felt a sharp pain on her calf and heard her summer dress rip.

“ Ahh! ”

“Claire!” Trevor hurried to her side.

“What happened?” Dakota said.

“I’m okay. I think.”

Claire’s right foot was stuck through the floor. She could feel the ground below. Her left leg was bent on the floor, her right hand bracing against the boards to prevent herself from dropping further.

Trevor grabbed her right arm and took some of her weight. Dakota supported her on the left. Claire eased her leg out of the breach. A jagged edge of wood had gouged her right leg. She saw blood on her dress.

“Ouch,” she said, though the worst of the pain was over.

Warm blood seeped down her ankle and into her shoe.

“Let me look at it.” Trevor helped her sit down on the floor, then knelt beside her to check the damage.

Claire held the light steady on the wound. There was a good bit of blood, but the cut looked superficial. “I’ll be fine.”

“We need to wash it clean. I’ve got a kit in the car.”

“I’ll get it,” Dakota said, and left the room.

“Watch your step!” Claire called out after her. “Now I feel like an idiot.”

“Think you can you stand?”

She nodded, and he helped her up. Claire turned back to see where the floor had broken through. She flashed her light into the dark hole.

There was something inside, something pale in the shadows.

She limped closer.

“Careful!” Trevor warned, restraining her from the edge.

“Trevor, look. There something down there.”

“Give me that.”

He took her cell phone examined the hole.

“Looks like a piece of paper,” he said.

“Can you reach it?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

He knelt and put his hand into the hole, reaching all the way until his shoulder was at the level of the floor. “Got it!” He came back up with the paper trapped precariously between two fingers. He turned the paper over.

“It’s a photo,” he said.

“Of what?”

Something in Trevor’s expression changed.

He’s afraid.

“Trevor, what is it?” she asked. “What’s in the photo?”

He looked back up at her, staring.

He’s afraid of me.

“Trevor? Are you all right?”

He handed her the photo.

She saw that it was an old black and white photo of a young girl, a teenager, with a man who might be the girl’s father, but it was too dark to see the details.

“Give me the light.”

He did, and she looked at the photo again, under the light. The picture was old and worn—not black and white, but sepia. She knew the girl’s face in an instant.

At last I found you.

“Claire,” Trevor said. “It looks like you.”

Dakota crossed carefully through the living room, stepping over the ratty old rug. The room was dark, but the front door was open and she could see the Hummer parked outside.

Ethan was in car. She hadn’t wanted to leave him there alone, but he had told her to go. He was trying to be strong, foolishly so. Ethan thought he was going to die, and didn’t want Dakota to watch him suffer.

You’re not going to die, Ethan.

She’d gone inside to find help, but there was no help in the house. No phone, no supplies—

Something moved outside.

Dakota saw the figure of a man cross behind the Hummer. She heard no footsteps on the ground. The figure moved silently, like a shadow. He wore a loose, long jacket and a wide-brimmed hat. Dakota didn’t see his face.

“Hey!” She darted to door, but lost sight of the man.

He’s behind the car.

Dakota stepped out onto the porch. “Hey, you! Mister! We need help. My boyfriend’s hurt and we need to call nine-one-one.”

She jumped down from the porch, over the rickety steps, and onto the ground. She circled around to the other side of the car.

No one was there.

Where did he go?

“Hey!”

Dakota continued around the car, completing a circle, but didn’t see the man. She scanned the area. There was no one between her and the house, or between her and the road, or between her and the barn.

She was alone outside.

Dakota crouched down to look under the car, but saw no feet.

Freaky.

None of the car doors had opened, so the man couldn’t be inside.

Or could he?

She looked in through a window, and saw Ethan lying there alone across the back seats, eyes closed, moaning softly.

He’s breathing.

She moved forward and checked the front seats.

Empty.

Remembering her purpose, she went to the back of the car to retrieve the first aid kit. She opened the back door. Inside, everything was a jumble. Clothes, suitcases, trash. She moved things aside.

It’s here somewhere.

Ethan sat up in his seat.

“You okay, Baby?” Dakota asked.