Jack Kilborn - Endurance

More missing pages. Letti turned to the most recent entry.

June 12, 2007

Exhausted. Iron Woman training is both the hardest and the most rewarding thing I’ve ever done. I wish I was at the event hotel, but this isn’t a bad substitute. And you can’t beat the price, even though this place is sort of scary. I___

The “I” trailed off, making a pen mark that went all the way down to the bottom of the page. Like someone bumped the writer. And on the bottom of the page...

Brown stains. Like blood drops.

Letti looked around the room, feeling goosebumps raise up on her arms. This had to be some sort of prank. A gag journal, to amuse the guests.

But Letti wasn’t amused. She was seriously weirded out.

I need to check on Kelly.

She was getting ready to toss the journal aside and hop out of bed when a mark on the page caught her eye. A black mark.

Letti turned the page past the final entry, and saw a child’s handwriting, written in black crayon.

Letti scratched at the printing with her fingernail, getting black wax underneath. The familiar smell of crayon wafted up at her, reminding Letti of when Kelly was younger. But Kelly’s childhood printing never looked so... creepy.

Letti turned to the next page.

Letti’s head shot up. She scanned the room, listening for strange sounds, feeling like someone was indeed watching her, and at the same time knowing it was crazy to be thinking that.

It’s a joke. A dumb, sick joke. When I see Eleanor again, I’m going to tell that crazy old hag what I think of her stupid little Inn.

Letti stared down at the journal again. She touched the top corner of the page, ready to turn it.

Do I really want to keep reading this BS?

No. I should go check on my daughter.

Letti began to close the book, and stopped.

They’re only words on paper. I don’t need to be afraid of them.

So why am I?

Letti chewed her lower lip, undecided what to do next.

Florence would think I’m a real chicken. She was in a war zone for four years, and I can’t even read a silly journal.

Letti turned the page, feeling her breath catch.

Letti sprang out of bed, backpedalling to the opposite side of the room, her eyes glued to the closet.

There’s no one in there.

But how do they know my name?

Letti wondered if Kelly somehow had fabricated this, had put the journal in her room. She loved scary movies.

But Kelly hasn’t been in this room.

Could she have snuck in while I was talking to Florence?

That seemed a lot more plausible than someone named Grover hiding in the closet.

And if Grover really is in the closet, why would he tell me?

Letti set her jaw.

It’s a joke. Stop being a baby.

She marched over to the closet, grabbed the knob, and with no hesitation pulled the door open, staring up at the tall, deformed man with the bloodshot eyes and the crazy smile on his face.

“You’re pretty,” Grover said in a high voice. “Like Kelly.”

Letti froze in shock. As the scream welled up in her throat, Grover grabbed Letti around the back of the head with one huge hand and pressed a wet towel to her face with another.

Letti got over her surprise quickly, and her body went on autopilot, executing the self-defense moves Florence drilled into her head years ago. First came a fist to the throat, followed by a heel grind to the instep.

She hit fast and hard, holding her breath, waiting for him to stagger back.

Grover didn’t stagger. The punch to his neck missed his Adam’s apple, because it wasn’t where it should have been. Her hand sunk into doughy neck fat, and bounced off harmlessly. Letti’s kick was similarly ineffective. Her bare heel bounced off what seemed like steel-toed boots.

She quickly followed up with a knee to the groin, putting her weight behind it.

Her knee connected with... nothing.

Along with his other defects, Grover didn’t seem to have genitals.

Letti didn’t give up yet. Still refusing to breathe in, she cupped her hands and slapped them against Grover’s ears, trying to burst his eardrums.

This time Grover did react. He stuck his lower lip out and started to cry, the tears running down his misshapen face. But he didn’t let go. Instead, he pulled Letti tight to his body. She continued to punch and kick, but she didn’t have any room to swing, and her blows did little damage.

Finally, no longer having a choice, Letti inhaled.

The liquid soaking the towel burned her nose and throat when she sucked it in, and for a moment Letti felt like everything was okay, that she was completely safe, and it was perfectly reasonable to fall asleep right now.

A bit of panic-fueled realization got through— I’m being drugged —and she lashed out one more time, reaching for Grover’s eyes, smearing the tears on his cheeks.

But before she could gouge them out, the darkness took her.

# # #

Mal Deiter stared into the garbage can at the severed head. He debated picking it up, showing it to Deb, but rightfully decided that wasn’t in good taste.

“What did I just eat, Mal?” Deb asked, an edge to her voice.

“It wasn’t pheasant,” Mal replied, eyeing the small beak. “It was partridge.”

“You mean like in a pear tree ?”

“His pear tree days are over.”

Mal discarded the remnants of their snack, then closed the lid. He faced Deb and saw she wasn’t amused.

Too bad. Deb was an attractive woman, but when she smiled, she was dazzling. So far, Mal hadn’t been able to make her smile more than a few times, even though he was trying his damnedest. Deb was too guarded which was a shame. If she relaxed a bit, Mal knew he could really fall for her. But he doubted Deb would let him get close enough for that to happen.

For the time being, he tried to reign in his feelings and keep things professional. Even guarded, Deb was an interesting person, and he liked being around her. He was already trying to think up some good excuse to call her after the interview ended.

“So what’s your impression of our hostess?” Mal said, taking his seat. “I’m thinking about calling The Addams Family , seeing if one of them is missing.”

Deb’s mouth curled in the faintest smirk, and the lines on her forehead smoothed out.

“You might want to call the White House instead. These decorations are mind-blowing.”

“They’re unpresidented.”

This time Deb actually did smile, full wattage, and it lit up the room.

“Thanks for splitting a partridge sandwich with me, Mal. I think I’m going to turn in. Long day.”

Mal wracked his brain to come up with some reason to keep talking. Another interview question? Something more personal? A joke?

Then he saw Deb stifle a yawn with the back of her hand, and realized the proper thing to do was let her get some sleep. She was, after all, competing in a triathlon.

“I’ll walk you up.”

They took the stairs slowly, silently, but the silence wasn’t awkward. When they arrived at Deb’s room, Mal felt a tinge of uncertainty, like he’d just been on a date and was unsure if he should try for the kiss.