Ghost Chant Read online

  But they weren’t catching them out of simple playfulness. Not to keep them as pets. But to kill them. Cherie and the boy, James, each captured one of the amphibians and set them on a wide flat stone, only to bash them with rocks, over and over again.

  The act was grisly and fascinating at the same time. The blood and gore, the way the creatures would squirm less and less until they were finally dead, smashed into a gruesome pulp.

  Cherie and James continued to hunt and kill the frogs for some time, maybe killing a half dozen in all, until Nikki had walked up and witnessed what they’d been doing and had begun to cry, grabbing Cherie by the arm, shaking her, and asking the question, “Why? Why are you doing this?”

  “I don’t know,” James said quickly before Cherie could answer. But Nikki didn’t seem to hear him, her streaming eyes focused only on Cherie, who immediately felt guilty and puzzled at the same time. She could only shrug her small shoulders at her older sister, the bloody rock she’d been using to bash the frogs to death still clutched in her tiny fist.

  “I’m telling Mom,” Nikki sobbed and ran off to do exactly that.

  Cherie remembered the lecture she’d been given by her mother. It had been patient but also disappointed and firm, while her father looked on with his arms folded across his broad chest, slowly shaking his head.

  The shame which had resulted from that day had plagued Cherie ever since, but had reached its zenith in her early teen years, after Nikki’s suicide.

  She glared at the frogs in her bed, angry they’d forced her to recall such an unpleasant piece of her past.

  Killing the creatures was not an option for her. She couldn’t distress her sister like that ever again.

  9

  After gathering all the top bedding into a bundle and tossing it in the washing machine, Cherie pulled the corners from the bottom sheet out from under the mattress and drew them together, making a satchel of sorts with the frogs. That done, she took it outside to the backyard and gently shook the creatures free, letting them hop off into the darkness. When they’d all fallen out of the sheet, she bundled it up once more and turned to head back inside.

  Maggie Kerr stood at the living room window, peering out at Cherie with that same blank stare she’d always worn, the green rain slicker bright in the glow of the lamps within.

  Biting back a startled squeal, Cherie’s eyes went wide, gazing back at the child with awe and bewilderment. She may have stood like that forever, but as she watched, Maggie’s lips curled into a tight-lipped smile and she nodded slowly, just once.

  She was mocking Cherie and as that realization settled into Cherie’s mind, her hands clenched into fists, the sheet she was gripping suddenly tearing with an almost unbearably loud sound in the quiet dark.

  Growling with rage, Cherie stormed up the steps to her back door, already knowing Maggie would be gone by the time she entered the living room, not bothering to close the door behind herself as she crossed the threshold into the house.

  But she was wrong.

  Maggie remained at the window, turning her head to regard Cherie with that strange, self-satisfied smirk.

  “Too much pain,” Maggie whispered.

  The words were almost enough to make Cherie pause in her attack, but she forged on, flinging herself at the girl and wrapping the sheet tight around the child’s skull, shrouding the face completely.

  She squeezed as hard as her muscles would allow, shaking the girl, grimacing, baring her teeth, spraying the sheet with spittle as a vein pulsed in her temple and her vision went red, her head pounding with blood and effort as perspiration rolled down the sides of her body.

  After nearly a full minute of the intense physical exertion, she collapsed before the window, the empty sheet tangled in her fists and spilling onto the floor beside her.

  Suddenly exhausted, she curled into the fetal position and tried to regulate her breathing. Behind her, the TV droned on, but she paid it no mind. She could easily have fallen asleep until she remembered she’d left the back door open. Releasing a heavy sigh, she tried to muster the energy to get up and close it but she wanted to stay where she was, coiled in a half-circle, the balled up sheet acting as a makeshift pillow.

  Too much pain.

  What had Maggie meant by that? Or, perhaps, Cherie thought, Maggie’s ghost. Because that’s what she was dealing with, wasn’t it? A haunting? A vengeful spirit?

  Or you’re just delusional, a smug voice in her mind replied. Delusional and a child murderer. A lovely combination.

  “Fuck you,” she mumbled testily.

  A gust of wind blew the door back hard, slamming it into the wall behind it with a loud thud.

  Cherie lifted her head, expecting to see Maggie standing in the doorway, but there was nothing but the night beyond, windy and wet.

  She groaned, resigning herself to the fact that she had to get up despite her exhaustion. She was just getting to her feet when a naked man holding a little girl ran into the house from the backyard, his wet, longish brown hair plastered to his skull as he raced by yelling incoherently.

  Cherie watched in shock as he retreated into the kitchen, his back and buttocks flexing with every stride before he disappeared from sight.

  “What the fuck?”

  The back door forgotten, Cherie raced after the man and found him standing by the sink, his back to her. It appeared he was bouncing the child up and down in front of him, maybe playing with her, but it took Cherie only seconds to figure out what he was truly doing to the girl.

  She froze in place, a cloak of horror and disgust squeezing her body to the point where she feared becoming physically ill.

  Why was the girl not crying out? Why was she so silent? Was it terror? Or just . . . resignation?

  Cherie’s hands clenched into fists and the red rage flared up once again. Just to her right on the kitchen counter was the knife block and she slowly selected the eight-inch chef’s knife. It slid from its slot silently and then she charged forward, sliding the blade between the naked lowest ribs of the rapist’s back. He spun to face her, scraggly hair in his face, and shouted, “Too much pain!”

  Gasping in agony, Cherie looked down at her right thigh to see the knife protruding from it, buried about an inch and a half deep, the handle still firm in her grip.

  She bit back a scream and looked up to find herself alone in the kitchen.

  “Oh, God,” she whimpered, releasing the knife, unsure of what to do. She immediately became nauseous, the room going gray around the edges of her vision and she sank to the floor, sitting awkwardly so her right knee was bent inward toward her left leg.

  “What the fuck is happening to me?” she groaned. Tears of pain burned her cheeks as she watched the leg of her jeans grow dark with seeping blood.

  She knew she couldn’t leave the knife there but would pulling it out be bad as well? She needed to go to a hospital.

  And how will you explain stabbing yourself, dumb ass?

  It was her own voice, mocking her just as Maggie had done. Was Maggie somehow polluting her mind now?

  Steeling herself for agony, Cherie grabbed the handle of the chef’s knife, took a deep breath and yanked it out as fast as she could.

  Blood gushed from the two-inch long gash and she clamped a hand over it, willing herself to stay conscious. She’d never been good with blood. Even as a little girl it had made her queasy. When it was her own, anyway. She’d always been indifferent to the blood of others.

  Swearing under her breath, she shoved herself across the floor until she was near enough to the stove to grab a dishtowel off the oven handle to press against her wound.

  Don’t pass out. It’s not really that bad. Don’t pass out.

  And it wasn’t that bad. Not that deep. Yes, she should probably get herself to a hospital and have it stitched, but if the bleeding stopped soon, she would . . . she would . . .

  10

  Cherie woke up, a fluorescent light searing her eyes. She was in her kitchen, on the
floor for some reason.

  It only took her a few seconds to remember.

  The man with the long, greasy hair. The little girl. The knife.

  She forced herself to sit up and examine herself. The dishtowel was damp and bloody but not drenched through, surprisingly. There were only a few droplets of blood, still shimmering wetly, on the floor near where she sat.

  Cherie drew in a breath and sighed with relief. She was okay. Everything was okay. She hadn’t been out long.

  Still slightly nauseous, it took her a moment to gather the will to try to stand, but she got up easily enough and the pain wasn’t unbearable. If not for the blood, she knew she’d be fine. The pain, in itself, just angered her.

  “That fucking little bitch,” she hissed as she hobbled over to look out the window.

  Multiple cruisers were across the street, lights flashing, and several people stood on the Kerr lawn, most of them in uniform, but some Cherie recognized as other neighbors.

  As she watched, a black SUV drove up, a bubble light flashing red and blue on its dashboard.

  “Fuck,” she whispered.

  The sound of wind chimes drew her attention away from the window and she turned toward the living room to see her door wide open, the metal chimes jangling just beyond sight.

  Her eyes went wide with panic, her wound forgotten, and she hurriedly went to close it. Just as she reached the door, the beam of a flashlight passed over the picnic table and the crackle of a police radio rounded the far corner.

  She quickly closed the door, but not before hearing a male voice speaking. Responding to the radio? She couldn’t be sure. It was impossible to decipher the words.

  They were going to knock, of course. If not now, then soon, and she couldn’t answer it with a bloody, gaping wound showing through a two-inch slash in her jeans.

  She had to clean up.

  Quickly.

  Wincing, she rushed toward the stairs and climbed them with only minor difficulty. The pain was there but distant compared to her nervousness about the roaming, noisy cops.

  In the bathroom, she stripped down to her panties and regarded the pair of jeans. What the fuck was she going to do with them? What if the cops—or the feds—decided to do a door to door search?

  The thought almost caused her to scream with frustration but then she remembered the body in the closet. If they were going to search her house, a self-inflicted stab wound would be the least of her problems. Hell, it might help her case, now that she thought about it. She was crazy, wasn’t she? Crazy as a goddamn fucking loon.

  Just like Nikki.

  She scowled at herself in the mirror for a moment, then tossed the bloody, torn jeans in the hamper to deal with later, assuming there would be a later.

  After rummaging in the medicine cabinet, she sat on the closed toilet to bandage her wound. She wrapped it tightly with gauze until she could no longer see any oozing blood and then taped the entire thing several times. She couldn’t risk any visible leaking. Not now.

  As she inspected her handiwork she heard a tiny tick, which drew her attention to the countertop next to the sink.

  The largest silverfish she’d ever seen lay on its back on the counter next to the now empty box the gauze had come in. It was easily as long as her pinky finger and as fat as her thumb at the head.

  She stared with mounting disgust and fascination. The insect lay still, its white underside exposed, its segments clearly visible.

  Cherie looked up at the ceiling, as the creature had clearly fallen dead from above, but there were no clues up there. Silverfish were not particularly rare in her house, but they weren’t exactly common either. She supposed she had to kill a few every year, but usually no more than that.

  But this one . . .

  It was huge. A queen, perhaps? Did they even have queens? Or did they get bigger the longer they lived? If so, this one must have been several years old, as all the others she’d ever seen were probably less than half an inch in length.

  She was somewhat amused by her interest in the insect, given everything else that was happening to her this night, but the thing . . .

  Its antennae twitched, ever so slightly. Cherie frowned, leaned in for a closer look while simultaneously crinkling her nose in revulsion.

  So . . . not dead then, but almost.

  Holding her breath, she studied the thing while her right hand reached behind her for a wad of tissues to dispose of it with.

  Suddenly the insect flipped over and began to scuttle away, startling Cherie into action. She smashed the creature with the tissues, grinding it into a smear of something like dust on the countertop.

  She shivered and flushed the wad down the toilet, warily glancing up at the ceiling again.

  Since when did insects play possum?

  Since Maggie, of course.

  The fucking brat was toying with her, fucking with her mind, trying to drive her insane.

  But it would take more than just an extraordinarily large bug to get Cherie to crack now. After all the other events of the night, a big silverfish was nothing.

  She stepped into the bedroom and asked the closed closet, “That’s the best you got now? Used up your little bag of tricks already?” She paced the floor, aware of the stinging in her thigh but not caring. “You’re a little fucking weakling, is what you are. Weak. Ling. And getting weaker, aren’t you? What’s next? Will you make the lights flicker? Huh? Make the floorboards creak? I’m on to you now, Maggie. I’m fucking on to you and your little bullshit games. You can’t scare me anymore.”

  Freezing mid-step, she realized she’d yelled the last sentence. She was getting too worked up, especially with the cops milling around outside, probably just beneath her bedroom window.

  “But that’s part of your plan too, isn’t it, Maggie, darling?” she asked in a softer tone. “Getting me to lose my temper again. Draw attention to myself. Well, it’s not going to work. I’m cool as a cucumber now, baby. Fuck you.”

  She could feel the anger again, simmering, and she couldn’t let it boil over. She had to calm down. She couldn’t let the little fuck win.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, she allowed herself a minute to calm her nerves. When her fists relaxed, she shook her hands vigorously, the way a musician warming up will do.

  “Just breathe, Cherie,” she told herself. “Breathe and unwind a little.”

  When she was satisfied she’d done that much, she got up, went to the dresser and pulled on a fresh pair of jeans, taking care to choose a loose pair that wouldn’t rub against the bandage much.

  She returned to the kitchen and cleaned up the few spatters and smears of blood on the floor with a damp paper towel. Once she’d disposed of it in the trash, she resisted the urge to look out the window again, but wasn’t sure what else to do with herself.

  Another minute was killed by washing the knife and returning it to its block but beyond that, she was at a loss. There was no way she could go back to watching TV. Even if she were able to concentrate, it might mask the sound of the goings-on outside. She wanted to stay on top of what the cops were doing as much as possible, given that at this very moment they were probably tromping through her backyard. Hell, they were probably all over the entire neighborhood. It was only a matter of time before they knocked.

  Back in the living room, she scooped up the sheet from her bed and brought it down to the laundry room in the basement. As she was shoving it into the washing machine, she noticed it appeared to be clean—no mud streaked it anywhere that she could see. But the frogs . . .

  She shook her head. She couldn’t think about that now. Later, she’d ponder it carefully, but not now. After she closed the washing machine lid, she turned just in time to see the beam of a flashlight travel past the ground-level basement window.

  Her breath caught in her throat and stuck there. The light moved on quickly, but Cherie stayed frozen in place, staring at the black cat lying on the narrow windowsill.

  She didn’t own a cat
and never had.

  11

  The cat was dead.

  Cherie could see that even from ten feet away. It had been split open, straight down the belly, though there was no dripping blood anywhere in sight. From the looks of it, the cat had been dead for quite some time. At least a few days. It looked stiff, its open eyes clouded and milky white.

  Though she didn’t relish the thought of touching the creature, Cherie hurried over to the window and grabbed the thing by its tail, pulling it down off the sill. It made a slight crackling sound as its body separated from the cement windowsill and Cherie was disgusted at the hard, bristly fur in her hand, which didn’t feel like fur at all. More like a wire brush.

  She moved away from the window, holding the cat’s body out in front of her, shielding it from sight, just in case whoever had wielded the flashlight came back for another pass. If they had seen the dead animal on the windowsill, they’d definitely be suspicious. Who but a lunatic serial killer would keep a gutted dead cat in such plain sight, visible to anyone who happened to glance at the window?

  Hurriedly, she dumped it into the trashcan, shuffling around some of the garbage so it wouldn’t be the first thing a person would see if they were to lift the plastic lid and peer inside. It wasn’t the best hiding job, but it would have to do for now.

  She closed the lid and stood glaring down at the trashcan for a long moment.

  It was fucking Maggie, of course. Another one of her tricks, doing whatever she could to try to get Cherie caught.

  The thought made Cherie livid. Killing the little bitch hadn’t been enough of a punishment, obviously. What would it take for the brat to move on and leave her in peace? Was she going to have to go upstairs, drag the body into the bathroom and dismember it, cutting her into such tiny pieces that they’d be able to be flushed down the toilet?