Melissa Foster - Chasing Amanda

Cole reached for her, whispered, “What is it? What’s the matter?”

Fresh tears sprang to Molly’s eyes, “My cut. It burns so badly.” She shook her bandaged hand, rocking in pain. “I can’t stand it,” she hissed, trying to keep from crying out.

Newton noticed Molly’s red face, the tears streaming down her cheeks, “Molly, are you okay?”

Molly looked up to see thirteen sets of eyes trained on her. She could not stop rocking, the pain shooting up her wrist felt as if it traveled through her veins. Cole was on his feet, helping Molly up.

“I…I have a cut,” she said, trying to sound calm. “I think I have to go.”

Cole was calm, guiding Molly to the car and assuring the others that she was going to be fine.

Molly turned suddenly out of his arms and faced Newton, holding her bandaged arm up with her strong one. “Newton,” she said through the pain, “where is the Perkinson House?”

Newton stood silently, dumbfounded by the pain in Molly’s eyes. It took him a moment to figure out what she was referring to. “Oh!” he said, suddenly remembering his discussion. “It’s just up the dirt road next to the lake, but you can’t go up there. No, no.” He shook his head, watching Cole trying to coax Molly toward the car. “Pastor Lett, who is caring for the home, has strict orders not to let anyone up that road, much less to the house.” Newton walked a few steps in either direction, as if he were looking for something.

Molly nodded in confirmation and turned to go.

The relief in Cole’s eyes was evident. He turned to Newton and said quickly, “Thank you, Newton. Great discussion. I’m sorry we have to leave.” He ushered Molly into the car.

Molly collapsed into her seat, doubling over and holding in her screams.

Cole grabbed Molly’s hand and unwrapped the bandage. Molly turned away, afraid to look.

“How is it?” she asked. When Cole didn’t answer right away, she asked again, “What? What does it look like?” The words tumbled out of her mouth unstoppable and unsteady.

“Mol, what happened?” he asked, his eyes wide.

Molly looked at her hand. The gash was bright red and swollen, the letter T stared back at her, accusing—or pleading—she wasn’t sure which but felt the signal with each pulsating pain.

“It wasn’t like that this morning, I swear,” she said. “What happened?”

In the space of a breath, the pain receded into numbness, the swelling shrank, the redness faded as if it had never been there. The numbness passed into oblivion—gone.

“What the hell?” Cole demanded.

“I have no idea.” Molly panicked. “The pain is gone. Gone! My God, Cole, what’s happening?”

Twelve

Hours had passed, and Tracey felt like a limp rag doll. She opened her eyes and found her captor sitting on an upended log, the handle of an old pocket knife in her left hand and a partially-whittled wooden bird in her right. “Mummy doesn’t like bad girls,” her captor sneered. Tracey had become numb to the pains that tore through her limbs and shoulder, numb to the treachery of her situation. “I have to put you in the bad spot now,” Mummy said, irritated at the inconvenience. “I have no choice but to put you there.” Tracey shook her head, whispered, “No.” She was too exhausted to fight. Her eyes pleaded with her captor. “You give me no choice, young lady.” Her arms rested on her knees. “It will hurt me more than it will hurt you.”

Tracey watched flakes of wood peel from the block and glide toward the dirt floor. She glanced from the knife in her captor’s hand to the other wooden birds lined up along the edge of the wall where her captor slept and wondered if each bird represented a child she had stolen. Her eyes drifted back to the knife and settled there.

Mummy sat silently shaking her head, whittling the head of the bird. When the beak was complete and the head distinct, she stood, turned, and set the bird down carefully on the log. The knife remained in her hand as she turned to face Tracey.

Tracey gritted her teeth, swallowing any sounds that might have tried to escape. Her eyes remained trained on the knife.

Mummy walked toward Tracey, gripping the knife in her left hand. She reached for Tracey with both arms. Tracey leaned back, closing her eyes. Mummy lifted Tracey gently to her feet, then laughed. “What is this?” she mumbled. Tracey snatched a quick glance at Mummy and saw her staring at the knife.

Tracey’s entire body shook. She leaned back, as far away from her captor’s body as she was able while being held by the shoulders in a crushing grip. She turned her face away from the cold, sharp knife. Her captor removed her left hand from Tracey’s shoulder and raised the knife to her own eye-level. She looked it over, turning it in her hand. Her eyebrows furrowed, as she closely inspected the weapon. Then she let out a hmph, shrugged her shoulders, and tossed the tool toward the upended log. She looked down at Tracey and released her grip.

“Let’s go,” she said in a bored and tired voice.

Tracey let out her breath in a rush of relief. Breathing hard and fast, she followed her captor as she removed the plywood from the opening and headed down the dingy passageway. They neared the entrance to where the bad spot was; Tracey’s legs failed her. She couldn’t walk toward that awful place. Paralyzed with fear, she breathed in rapid, noisy breaths. Her captor turned to face her, rolled her eyes, and yanked Tracey’s arm toward the wretched room.

“No!” Tracey screamed, blinded by her own tears. “I won’t do it again! I promise! I’ll be good!” she begged to deaf ears. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please, don’t put me in the bad spot. Please!”

Mummy began to pray, which scared Tracey even more than the bad spot did. “Hosea 9:7. The days of punishment are coming, the days of reckoning are at hand. Let Israel know this. Because your sins are so many and your hostility so great, the prophet is considered a fool, the inspired man a maniac.”

The rancid smell of urine, dead rodents, and fear pervaded the air of the dark room like rainwater seeping into the cracks of an old foundation. Tracey stood straight as a soldier, petrified. She felt a hand grasp her upper arm. Her captor’s fingers wrapped all the way around Tracey’s slim arm and squeezed—hard. Her other hand pushed against Tracey’s back, forcing her forward.

Tracey’s feet reluctantly disobeyed her desire to run away. The light from the lantern cast menacing shadows across the floor. Loose dirt, littered with rocks and pebbles, receded into a dark hole in the earth—the bad spot. Despite her best efforts not to, Tracey began to sob, “Please! Please! I’ll be good!”

Her captor pushed her forward, “You don’t appreciate anything!” Her words were robotic, as if scripted. “You’re a spoiled little brat, and you are going to learn to appreciate the things I give you!” Her entire body shook. “I saved you!” she said nastily, thrusting Tracey forward with such force that Tracey fell to the ground, just inches from the hole. Tracey tried to scramble away, clawing at the unforgiving dirt, struggling to move away from the hole, fruitlessly digging into the ground with knees and toes.

Her captor put her foot on the back of Tracey’s calf, successfully trapping her. Her captor yelled, “I saved you from being part of that horrible world! Part of the ‘people who don’t care’!”

Tracey wriggled and sobbed beneath her.

Her anger chillingly eased. “I’ll save you. You will be happy.” Just as quickly, her voice became terrifying, “You will learn to appreciate what you are given,” her final word was emphasized by her bearing down on Tracey’s already throbbing leg. Tracey yelped in pain.