December Park(163)

“What?” I blurted.

“Don’t move. Give me the light.”

“What did—?”

He snatched the light from my hand and swung the meager beam toward one of the gouges in the wall. A shredded blanket swayed in the stormy breeze that invaded from the countless cracks in the building’s fa?ade. “I thought I saw something move.”

There were a million things that moved in here: rats, mice, bats, raccoons, possums, snakes, lizards, not to mention an infinite variety of insects. Rivulets of water coursing through the cracks made it look like the entire floor was alive. Peter could have seen anything.

I motioned to the slanting doorway. “That’s the room with the meat hooks and mattresses.”

“Don’t call them meat hooks,” Peter said, handing me the flashlight.

I pressed forward down the passageway. It was more tedious now that the storm was funneling a channel of black water down the center of the creased floor. Bits of planking surfed down the hall, knocking against my shins.

“There,” Peter said, pointing.

I redirected the beam of light. Even as I stared at it, I didn’t fully register what it was right away.

The statue head. It sat in a corner against the wall, the rusted iron bar protruding from its neck.

“That can’t be the same—”

“It’s the same,” Peter finished. “Fuck. This is it, isn’t it?”

I just stood there, my body a frozen plank of ice, unable to move. I listened to the storm raging outside. I listened to the water dribble in through the cracks in the foundation. I listened to the hidden rodents that scurried through the muck.

“Angie,” Peter whispered.

I blinked. I realized my mouth was filled with acid. I leaned over and gagged, vomiting onto the floor. Peter’s hand fell on my back.

When I’d finished, I wiped my mouth with my arm, then ran fingers through my wet hair. “I’m okay,” I uttered, heading toward the rectangular doorway.

Flies dive-bombed for my eyes, and I swatted them away with my free hand, keeping the tenuous finger of light trained on the doorway ahead of me. The horrid smell intensified. I held my breath and stepped through.

I saw the stack of mattresses, the flooded floor, the crates ribboned with fingers of colored cloth, the strange metal diorama bolted to the far wall. I saw the meat hooks— (don’t call them meat hooks) —dangling from the industrial chains, too. And that was where we saw Adrian.

He’s dead.

Adrian was suspended upside down by one of the hooks, his arms behind his back. His face was red and swollen, and his eyes looked fused shut. His hair was a filthy snarl of kudzu, and his face was streaked with both grease and blood. The dark spots on his shirt looked like bloodstains, but I couldn’t see any wounds. Still dangling from a length of shoelace, the heart-shaped locket hung in front of his face.

My flashlight flickered but remained on.

Peter swallowed audibly. “Is he . . . ?”

“Adrian,” I called, my voice a sonorous echo throughout the chamber.

Adrian did not stir.

I waded through the rising water and over to the stack of wooden crates. “Help me with these.”

Peter rushed to my side but seemed confused as to what I needed him to do. He kept glancing up at Adrian’s lifeless body. When he saw me drag one of the crates over to the mattresses, he did the same. I grabbed his crate and placed it on top of mine. A switch seemed to go off behind his eyes, and he dashed back for another crate so we could complete our ladder.

I steadied the beam of light on Adrian. From this angle, I could see that his ankles had been taped together, and it was this ring of tape through which the meat hook had been looped. If I climbed to the top of the mattress pile, I might be able to reach up and cut him down . . .

“There’s someone else in here with us,” Peter breathed. He was hunched over one of the crates, looking behind him. “I can hear it . . .”

“Hurry,” I told him.

When our ladder reached four crates high, Peter steadied the base while I climbed atop the heap of mattresses—a sensation that was like crawling across the carcass of a beached whale. The fabric surrendered without protest, driving my fingers into the bedding, as my knees eased down into cool sludge. The smell was so horrible it stung my eyes and nearly made me gag. I lifted one hand, then set it down into a lukewarm porridge. Turning the flashlight onto my hand, I found I had placed my palm into a chunky custard of what at first appeared to be vomit. But then I saw that the individual chunks squirmed, and I recognized it for what it was: a puddle of writhing maggots.

I vomited over the side of the mattress.

Peter asked if I was all right.

After regaining my composure, I mumbled a weak, “I’m okay.”

Directly above my head, Adrian swayed almost imperceptibly from the chain. I swung my backpack around and found my switchblade in the small front pocket. I pressed the release button, but the blade jammed halfway out of the hilt. Feverishly, I continued pressing the button, but the blade would not shoot out any farther. Fuck it, then. It’ll still work.

I managed to stand, the surface of the putrid, wet mattress surrendering further beneath my weight; my feet sank into it up to my ankles as the fabric came apart. I felt things moving against my flesh and squirming beneath the elastic bands of my socks, and my mind summoned images of leeches, fat squirming bloodworms, and wriggling night crawlers.