Title: Perfect
Rating: PG13
Author: Schizoid Sarah
Movie: Secret Window
Characters: Mort Rainey, 3 original
Category: Action, mystery, horror
Archives: None so far, please ask before posting it.
Warnings: Character death(s) (my own chars), violence, swearing
Feedback: Always welcome! Please send to
Summary: Mort leaves his cabin to deal with his issues, but when he comes back, he finds out someone has "bought" his house and has moved in. How will he react to this new presence in his private space?
Perfect
Chapter 1
Mort Rainey had had quite an adventure for himself. His wife, Amy, and her lover had mysteriously disappeared only a short few weeks ago, along with a local caretaker and a New York detective. Unfortunately for Mort, the clues all seemed to point to him. Problem was, it hadn't been him. It'd been a man named John Shooter who was from a town in Mississippi. He had come up to Tashmore Lake accusing Mort of plagiarism – a most vicious and hurtful accusation to place on a writer. If you didn't have your story, what did you have? Nothing. Nothing at all.
The town seemed convinced that Mort had done it just the same and, because of that, they avoided him whenever possible. The local sheriff had even told him to shop at a neighboring town, since it made the people of Tashmore Lake nervous to have him about. Mort, on the other hand, had tried to move on. He had started to clean himself up, taking to a regular workout schedule, a personal hygiene routine and even opting for braces. This had not convinced the townspeople of his innocence, but at least he had started to feel a little more normal.
The truth was, however, that Mort was indeed still splintered as ever; Shooter tried to dictate his daily routines, though Mort had learned to subdue him some. He still woke to find things misplaced and occasionally destroyed, as if Shooter had awoken during his sleep and taken to an angry rage. This did scare Mort a bit, but he figured it was inevitable: if you had two people within the same body, one or the other would get frustrated soon enough. Overall, though, Shooter stayed within his head and didn't go gallivanting about the forest when Mort was sleeping.
The officials continued their search for the bodies of the missing and they seemed closer everyday. Shooter had become stronger as they drew nearer: Mort had more and more blackouts and restless naps, waking to trashed rooms. He was glad he lived alone in the cabin. Mort knew better than to get another pet – god knows what Shooter'd do to a cat or a bird (probably try to make Thanksgiving dinner out of the poor bastard). Still, Mort grew nervous, and though the corn crop had indeed proven fruitful, the truth still lay only 6 feet below the surface of Amy's secret garden.
It was not long after the death of Mr. Mort Rainey that young Gabe Kees had jumped at the chance to sell the author's appropriated house. It was a beautiful stead standing on the edge of a clean, crisp lake. The log home was warm and comforting inside, though there had been some damage to the walls during Rainey's final weeks of life. The word "Shooter" had been carved and plastered everywhere in the cabin, and though some had been painted over by Rainey himself, some of the larger carvings had endured. Simple enough to cover with plaster or wallpaper, and though it might take from the atmosphere, it was far better to leave well enough alone and not scare off possible clients.
So it was, then, that the lake-front cabin where Mort and Amy Rainey had spent nearly ten summers of young love would be refurbished and sold for top dollar.
June Belle and Robert Torone had been married in a perfect little white church by a perfect minister with perfect flowers, perfect guests and the most perfect white gown. It had been perfect. The couple had married on a whim, and though they had known each other for less then a year, they felt confident in their love. This was nearly ten years ago. For these ten long years they had tried for a child, but never were successful. The tension had grown and between the long hours Robert spent at the office, and the general lack of enthusiasm on both parts, their marriage was indeed on shaky ground.
During a birthday party, a close friend had suggested a vacationing spot to June to help rekindle her marriage. Despite the fact that she doubted its potential, she accepted it graciously along with the card of a local realty office. The card was quickly shuffled away in among the monthly bills, lost in June's desk drawers.
A few months after the conversation, June was bored and alone at home, she got the rare urge to clean. Naturally a pack rat, she occasionally went through a cleansing process in which she purged her desk and closet, spending days looking back on her life. It was at this time that she found the card in mixed in with her doctor's business cards and random office supplies. She fell on the card by accident, really, since it had slipped between the place where the desk drawer and the wheeled track met. It had been badly damaged by the greasy, jagged track, but was still legible.
The agent's name was written in pompous red curlicue text and was twice as big as any other text on the card, even the company logo. A green house icon with a yellow sun rising behind it accented the text well, she thought. Pausing in the motion to throw it to the trash bin behind her, she suddenly changed her mind and picked up the phone.
"Green Acres Realty," a nasally voice clamored in her ear. It was a woman, and she seemed thoroughly annoyed at being interrupted and forced to be pleasant about it.
"Uh, hi. I'd like to – uh. Is Gabe Kees in?" she asked, glancing down at the tattered card in her hand.
"Hold please," the voice rang again, followed by an unnatural mute. She didn't wait long; they mustn't have been very busy. She guessed that probably made sense, as it was near the end of August and most people were probably already settled in their purchases for the year.
"Hello, this is Gabe Kees," a rather average man's voice sang through the earpiece.
"Hi. My name is June Torone, and I am interested in a vacation home." She thought for a moment that perhaps she had been disconnected – his end of the line was silent for a long moment. She actually jumped when his voice jolted onto the line.
"Wonderful! Have you anything in mind? I can offer up some beautiful property on the Carolina coast, or perhaps as far south as Florida? We have a couple condos down there, if you'd like to take a look at those." He stopped as suddenly as he had started.
She had been lost in her own thoughts for a moment, but managed a reasonable response. "Actually, I was wondering if you had anything in upstate New York. I have some rela– "
"Wonderful!" he cut her off. "I actually have a recently remodeled home, a log cabin on waterfront property, in a small town called Tashmore Lake. A few others have made themselves available as well. When can I schedule you for an appointment?"
This caught her off guard. She hadn't expected to actually make an appointment, really. It was rather a moment of spontaneity, and she wasn't really sure how Robert would respond….
"How about this Friday afternoon. Say three?" she said, before she could dissuade herself further. The words seemed to come out before she knew what she was saying, come to think of it. At least she could consider it. No harm in that.
His voice jumped onto the line once more. "Great. I'll see you then. Miss Tor – "
"Mrs.," she corrected him.
"Mrs. Torone." Another pause, and then, "Will Mr. Torone be joining you?"
"No."
"Well, see you Friday then! Thanks for calling and have a nice day!"
The last part had seemed particularly plastic, but she said good-bye just the same and hung up. Robert had never forbidden her from looking into the possibility of a second home, and she felt excited to see this lake-front property for herself.
She made it to the agent's office on Friday, offering up a slick little white lie to Robert. When it came to her mother, Robert never interfered. Must've been the only good bit of advice his father had given him during their rocky relationship.
Kees had shown her some beautiful properties around the upper New York area, but the Tashmore Lake cabin he'd mentioned really was the most appealing. The photos showed beautiful sunsets over the lake, rich green forest and a beautiful wood cabin. It was kind of bizarre that the inside was wallpapered – weren't log cabins usually bare except in the kitchen and bathrooms? It was only a passing thought, however, and they set up a time to go visit the place in a week. Perhaps she would drag Robert up there, too.
The week passed quickly and, as she suspected, Robert was disinterested in the old, dusty place. Though it turned out not to be so dusty after all. As they stepped on the screen porch, the smell of fresh paint reached their noses. An airy peach color had been painted over the walls and the wood furniture, opening the space up significantly. Inside, the walls were papered in a rich red arabesque design with a cherry-wood stain coating those logs and cabinets that remained. The furniture was new and the place smelled of upholstery and paint remover. The floorboards were the only give-away of the house's true history. They were slightly beaten and worn, with paths where continuous treading had stripped away the stain completely. Deep maroon-red rugs had been cleverly placed in many of these spots, but there were a few still visible here and there.
June explored the rest of the house as Robert stepped outside with Kees. A lovely study area was spread out on the loft, overlooking the living room and the tall front windows that revealed the lake in the distance. She slowly walked around it, taking in the vivid wallpaper that extended from the living room. The pattern was, well, there was no pattern. It simply twisted this way and that, with bulges and curves and lazy criss-crosses. She followed the lines, the top set, since another deeper design seemed to be trapped below the other, and it led her to a small window looking down on a garden. It was hidden and she hadn't noticed it before as they had glanced about the place from the porch. The garden lay in the sharp angle formed by the house and the shed, and a new-looking white picket fence – the kind you'd find in a 50's television show – traced the outside. All that she saw growing, however, was corn. Five rows of six-foot corn that was now dry and paled by the hot summer sun.
Something shuffled behind her.
June swung around hard, her head meeting a low-rise support beam. With a muted thud, she landed on one of the maroon rugs, staring up at the wooden ceiling. The room began to darken, and fear gripped her as a dark figure stepped into her field of vision. A man wearing a large black… hat…
Chapter 2"That hat!" June cried out suddenly as she tried to sit up quickly, her fear returning to her faster than her senses.
"Whoa, sugar, just you wait a minute there. You had yourself a mighty-fine bump, and it wouldn't do for you to go and knock yourself out again." It was the agent's voice. The image in her head washed away as her head swam with dizziness and confusion. She was staring up at the wood ceiling still, but the sunlight had moved a considerable amount and was now shining through the small window in the most peculiar fashion. No one else seemed concerned with the little window, though. Just with her.
"June-bug, you had me so frightened! We called for you, wondering where you were, but you didn't answer, and I thought – I don't know…" Ronald's voice seemed somewhere off in the distance, as though he were on the other side of a large gymnasium. Slowly he came into focus, and his words made sense to her. She smiled sympathetically. "I'm fine, Ron. Just a bump on the head is all. Not watching where I was going, I suppose." Even her own voice seemed distant to her, moreso than Ron's had. "Where are we going to lunch? I'm starving!"
They all chuckled at this and Gabe suggested a local place he had eaten at during his last visit. After bandaging her cut, which had bled much less than expected, they headed into town.
The women in the café had no shortage of stories for the visitors. They started with the sweeter stories, like the farmer's market that takes place downtown in the central park or the Seeler family's little blond sweetheart who sells daisies, daffodils and wild roses in front of the butcher store every Sunday after church. As the time rolled on, however, the darker stories came out. Twice Gabe tried to hush up the old biddies, but June cut him short, eager to learn about the area's history.
Soon the story of the old Rainey place came out… the house the two of them had just been at. Although Gabe really protested it, the two women continued anyway.
"Morton Rainey… yeah, he was a writer…" the first woman said. She had a kind of purple-tinted hair, something like a failed attempt at a brunette dye.
"Killed himself up at that cabin… the one over on the lake at the end of that real long driveway," the other one said. Her glasses sat at the tip of her nose much like that of a librarian. She peered over them during the entire conversation.
Purple-hair spoke up. "Well, some say he killed himself, threw himself off a cliff, hung himself in the woods, all kinds of tales are spinning around right now. Truth is, he really just disappeared. Some people say he faked his death to shirk off his – accusations."
Gabe looked up at her with a fierce look at that moment, a harsh contrast to his light demeanor from the rest of the day. "I think we should be going now," he started. "It's getting late and you have quite a drive ahead of you, Mrs. and Mr. Tor –"
"No, actually, we don't have to be back any time soon, and we don't have anything pressing tomorrow morning." She finished this with a curt nod towards the women. "Please, continue."
Purple-hair glanced briefly at Gabe, then back at June. "Well, people 'round here say he murdered four people, but the police haven't found any solid evidence."
"I heard it was more like ten people. He lured them to his house, and he–" Purple-hair gave her a stern look, and Ms. Librarian clammed up.
Purple-hair looked back at June. "A local caretaker, Tom Greenleaf, disappeared a couple years ago. No one has heard from him, nor seen his vehicle around town. Also, I read in the papers that both Mr. Rainey's ex-wife and her fiancé, along with a respected New York detective have all gone missing. Not all in the same paper or article, but people make their own connections, you know. That's only four people," she said, glancing at Ms. Librarian.
Purple-hair continued, "Most people steered clear of him after those people died, and after he stopped coming into town, we never really saw him. The sheriff is the last person to see him alive, and he says that his house had been empty for near a year, with no proof that the man is still alive. He stopped paying his taxes, obviously, and the house was repossessed by the town, auctioned off and bought by Green Acres Realty." She finished this statement with a poignant nod towards Gabe.
The conversation lurched to a halt. Everyone seemed to be caught up in his or her own thoughts, except Robert, whom June thought looked like a bored schoolboy. She ignored this. He was usually rather uninterested when it came to "ghost stories" as he always called them. He had grown up in a cynical household, and she pitied him for this. He never really got into the spirit of things either. Halloween, Christmas, and New Year's: they were all just days on the calendar to him. Even Valentine's Day passed him by many-a-time. Only their anniversary inspired him enough to do something special.
Robert cleared his throat, a clear signal that he wanted to leave, and the moment passed. Everyone came out of his or her trance, and an uncomfortable silence suddenly washed over the group.
"Well, that was enlightening. Thank you for that," Robert said, as he gathered up his jacket. "We really must be going, though."
With that awkward statement, the three stood and left the ladies to their lunch.
A few days passed, and June felt it was time to call Gabe back. Robert had seemed somewhat unimpressed by the stories, but the cabin had been nice, and he agreed to try to buy the place. It was only a few hours from their home in New York, but it was such different location, that they both felt equally drawn to it.
It was eleven in the morning when she called. "Hi, this is June Torone."
"Hi, June! How are you doing this morning?" he asked in his usual upbeat tone.
"Well, I'm doing well. Hey, have you sold that Tashmore Lake place yet?"
He paused a moment, considering his response. "No, not yet. But we've had quite a few prospective buys. Are you interested in it?" he asked tentatively.
"Actually, yes. We –"
"Great! What time did you want to come in? I'll need some time to draw up the papers, of course, but any time after Tuesday would be fine."
"Uh. How about Friday again. That seemed to work well," June said, slightly put off by his eagerness. She was still interested all the same.
"Fantastic! See you around one o'clock?" he said, ignoring her downtrodden tone.
"Yeah, that'd be great," she replied. "See you then. Good – " There was a click of the phone hanging up. He hadn't even said good-bye. Hadn't even waited for her to finish what she had been saying. Still, she wasn't too discouraged. Again, the time passed quickly, and before they knew it, June and Robert found themselves in Gabe's office, signing away a small fortune.
Tashmore Lake is a most beautiful place in the fall. The variety of trees makes for a delightful array of colors and it seems as though the change lasts forever. Each type of deciduous tree makes its transformation from that deep summer green to the vibrant red orange before it finally sheds in preparation for the winter. Until that point, however, the colors are simply gorgeous. There is a dusting of color on the earliest trees: a light green and yellow that shifts into oranges and reds as the sun reaches deeper into the tree. The outside branches shelter the inner limbs, postponing the metamorphosis of blush. It was to this beautiful scene that Mort Rainey returned to his home after being gone for over a year.
He had taken some time to himself, not letting anyone know; not that anyone would care. His work had become overbearing, though he had somehow managed to trudge through it page by page at the end. Ah, the end. That was the most worrisome part for him to write. It had to be perfect. Perfect place, perfect people, perfect colors, perfect everything. It is the most important part of the story. Shooter had shown him that. It had taken a long while, and it was most painful, but he had gotten it through to him. Now Shooter was with him all the time, a constant presence almost necessary for survival.
Almost.
The area was as empty as he'd left it, though it looked like the yard had had some work done: the weeds had been cut, the grass mowed, and the forest actually trimmed back. The place smelled differently, too, and as he stepped up onto the porch, his eyes grew wide. His beautiful oak porch had been painted. Painted. Not only painted, but colored an awful peach cream that clashed with the colors of the woods and lake.
"What the fuck happened to my house?" he cried, shocking some birds silent. It only got worse as he walked on. A ritzy etched-glass panel, painted the same as the porch, had replaced his airy screen door. He let himself inside; his key still worked, thank god. What he saw inside shocked him to the point of a near-breakdown. Shooter raged inside his head, and Mort tried to control him the best he could, but he himself was in a frenzy of disbelief.
The whole house was different. Entirely. The only thing that gave away that it had been his house was the huge mirror that hung on the wall. Amy had seen that at the flea market and begged him for it like a child would its parent. Everything else was gone: the tables, the chairs. Oh, god. His couch. His couch was gone. Anger – wrath – took over him, and he blacked out.
Sunlight poured in through the bathroom window. Cold tile pressed hard against a cheek, and voices, there were voices. That's nothing new. There are always voices. But there was something different about these voices – they weren't in his head. Someone, some people were in his house. He got up slowly. They even changed my bathroom. Stepping forward, he cautiously opened the door. It was silent, thank god. It had always squeaked a little, but it was silent now. He crept out into his bedroom – it was red now, like the rest of the house. The bed was the same, except for the blankets and pillows, my pillows.
There was a shuffling in the office and he froze. The voices seemed to have moved outside, but there was someone definitely on the stairs. He listened hard as the footsteps moved up into the office. He slunk to the doorway, which was open a bit, and peered out. A woman stood at Amy's window. It was Amy's window, since she had discovered it. It's a secret window looking down on a secret garden.
The woman had her back to him, and he could see her clearly. She was crouched at the window, as Amy had done. There was a peculiar parallel to the images – she had even chosen the same side to lean down at. Secret window… secret garden….
Shooter clamored from somewhere in the distance. Her hair is just like Amy's. Oh Amy. He remembered himself lying in bed with Amy, her golden hair spreading out, filling the air with the aroma of her conditioner. He leaned to kiss her, but suddenly the memory changed, shifted violently, and he saw gray, red, blond, bare shoulders… Shooter raged again, this time dangerously close to the surface. Mort actually had to reach out and grasp the doorway to keep from falling into another blackout.
Snow, headlights, the key rattling on the door handle as he unlocked the door, bare shoulders…
- I have to, Mr. Rainey. For your sake, I have to. -
And Mort blacked out.
Chapter 3
Horror struck Mort when he finally came to. He was lying in the forest, something he wasn't entirely foreign to, and there was nothing in sight. Nothing. What did you do Shooter? Shit. What did you do?
- Did what I had to, Mr. Rainey. – Mort looked up and saw Shooter leaning against a tree. He was cleaning his hands with his kerchief. It was not often that Shooter appeared to him like this; Shooter mostly stayed in his head. Dread washed over Mort.
"Tell me you didn't –" Mort said, his throat clenching up, forcing the words to stay inside. If he didn't say it, then it wouldn't be true, right? Right?
- No, sir. I didn't kill her, 'f that's what y'r askin' me. - He paused, wetting his kerchief. - Jus' scared her a little. Make sure she don' come back 'gain. – Shooter faded away.
"Shooter!" Mort cried. "SHOOTER!"
It's no use; he's gone now. You know that. Go back and be careful. You know what kind of havoc he wreaks.
Mort began to wander somewhat aimlessly, but eventually found a path and when he got to the house, he lurked around to check that it was empty. He had to calm himself at the peach coloring again, but made it inside. This time he had enough composure to explore the cabin.
It wasn't as bad as he had first thought. They in fact had left a lot of furniture, and he found his bookcases were still up, and his novels and other books still lined the shelves. His kitchen was also fairly intact. The fridge had been cleaned of the half-eaten leftovers, which was probably for the better – how long had he been gone, anyway? The counters had simply been cleaned, and as for the table, it just had a tablecloth over it. The place had been, however, completely cleaned out of Mountain Dew, and he was mildly frustrated at that.
Upstairs, his desk was still there, though resurfaced, since he found no carvings of 'Shooter' in the top. A lot of the furniture that Amy had picked out was still up in the office. There were a couple cherry-wood bookshelves against the back wall and Chico's chair still sat by the window, though now hooded in a red coverlet that matched the rugs. In his bedroom, the wood floor had been scattered with three or four more of the red rugs. The paintings that Amy had fallen in love with at the marketplace were down off the walls. He discovered them later in the back of the closet.
The bathroom was starkly different. Whereas the first floor bath had stayed fairly similar, the master bath had been gutted. His shower door had been replaced with some etched, stained glass number. The tile floor, most of which had been busted or crumbled before, had been redone in a red and white checker pattern, and the walls had been papered with the same red as the rest of his house. The busted mirror was gone and an elegant piece of work now hung in its place. He didn't mind this change much.
After he had looked around the house and yard (Amy's garden was still full of corn, since someone had obviously tended to it), he decided his safest bet was to hide out in the woods. There was an elaborate play fort only a short walk from the house. It had been built by some neighboring kids a good seven years before, and would do just fine as a makeshift home. He had lived under worse conditions, he reminded himself.
After a bit of preparation, June and Robert finally made it up to their new vacation home. It had been aired out and the shelves had been stocked with some basic necessities. The trees had gone into full bloom by this time and the colors reflected off the lake, making it appear as though it was on fire. When the sun hit it just right, June could swear that it actually was on fire, though that's not possible, being it was water. The old house was quiet and serene, but also had an eerie quality that Robert just could not register, no matter how June tried to explain it to him. Eventually she stopped trying, and kept things to herself; no use worrying him over her "imagination running wild."
It took a few days, but the couple managed to fall into a wonderful routine of getting up in the crisp morning together, then June would go for a run or walk on the paths around the lake while Robert stayed and read the paper and drank his coffee. Around noon on some days they would pack a picnic and dine on the beach only a short stroll from the front door. Other days they would stay in, particularly when it was raining or exceptionally cold. It was a pleasant few weeks they had in the beginning. Soon, however, Robert was summoned back to New York by work, and after some discussion, June decided to stay at the cabin while Robert lived in the New York apartment. It was not a separation, so to speak, just a temporary dislocation of their relationship.
June found the cabin to be quite lovely when she was there alone. She could do what she wished without having to tailor her day to Robert and his wants and needs. She found that the sun spilled quite wonderfully into the living room in the mornings, whereas the bedroom tended to be positively dreary with only a bit of direct sunlight dripping into the room and immediately drying up again. Because of this, she began sleeping on the couch in the living room. She kept up on her daily walks and runs, choosing a different path to follow every few days. After a week or so, June discovered that living in the cabin alone was not only peaceful but also a fine way to live.
The incidents started about two weeks after Robert had left her alone. June began to see things, or more accurately, someone, hiding about in the forest. She first saw him during a run down a path she hadn't been on before. He had been sneaking along parallel to her about 20 feet into the woods, but dashed off into the underbrush when she turned towards him. This happened a few more times over the week, once again during a run, and then when she had gone to the shed behind the garden to fetch a pail to pick corn. That was the more frightening of the two, knowing that he had been watching her, studying her.
After that last encounter she had shut herself up in the cabin most of the days. She only went on walks or runs when she got particularly restless, and when she did go out, she brought a walking stick or other weapon to defend herself if need be. For a long while she did not see him, and it wasn't until the first snow fell in late November that she even thought about him.
She had been going through the attic, or what would barely be considered the attic. It was in fact just a crawlspace over the master bath with a trap side door papered to look like the rest of the wall. She had had some trouble getting into it at first, but then found the trick latches and the door easily came free.
Dust poured out in a great cloud; musty, putrid air choked her for a second, but she coughed it out and found the air inside the space to be fairly agreeable. After retrieving a flashlight from the kitchen, she cautiously explored the small space with the beam of light. Almost a dozen boxes were stacked up, along with some bagged linen and a black leather bag. After a bit of a struggle she had coerced all seven boxes out, along with the black bag. The bag was similar to Robert's suitcase, but softer and heavier. She opened it and discovered a laptop and its respective cables. Setting this aside she began with the boxes.
Bank statements, bills, contracts and other documents filled four of the boxes, but the last three contained what looked like drafts of novels and a collection of photographs. She pulled out the photographs. They were in a stack about four inches tall, and rubber banded together. The band broke when she pulled it off the photos, but she didn't bother to replace it. Most of the photographs were pretty boring; picture after picture of the lake and surrounding area. A few were of a house she'd never seen before; it was a bright yellow house with a beautiful green lawn and tall, sturdy trees sprang up from the ground here and there.
The next sets of photos were of the cabin she recognized as the one she was in. Surely they must've been taken a quite few years previous, considering that the house had since been painted and wallpapered. The inside walls still were bare logs, and there was a bunch of mismatched, comfy-looking furniture in the living room. The second floor was similar, though again, the walls hadn't yet been papered. The little window was covered up by a bureau. Near the bottom of the pile she found some photos of a couple. The woman had blonde hair similar to her own.
She was pretty, June decided, with blue eyes and a lovely figure to match. The man was cute, but didn't exactly match the style of the woman. Guess it's true that opposites attract, she thought to herself. He had bleached-blond hair with dark roots showing through. He was of medium build with etched features and a sexy five o'clock shadow disguised by a goatee. His dark brown eyes looked at the camera with a smile, and even in the shots where he had on sunglasses, she could still tell his expressions. Ok, he was more than cute; he was pretty sexy. She ran out of photographs, so she continued through the boxes.
At the bottom of the last box, she found a worn, stained, curled manuscript. She had to struggle to read the title since it was faded and stained so badly. "Sowing Season, John Shooter," she read aloud, a cold draft raising goose bumps from her arms. She sat back and began to read the first page. "Todd Downey thought that a woman who would steal your love, when your love was really all you had, wasn't much of a woman. He therefore decided to kill her." Those first lines intrigued her, so she decided to start it over lunch.
While putting the boxes away, she unearthed a large black hat. When she pulled it out into the light, she froze. Her mind flashed back to that dimming view of the man standing over her. It was him, wasn't it. Oh, god. With a sudden panic, she made the connection: the man in the woods was the man in the photos was the owner of the hat that she saw as she passed out a month and a half before.
He was in the house. He was in my house.
It hadn't been your house at the time, remember? a second voice told her. It was his house first, and he's come back to claim it. It's Mort Rainey's house, the murderer, and you're here alone. He's come back to claim it.
She dropped the hat suddenly and it rolled partially under the bed. Goosebumps rose from her arms and the hair on the back of her neck stood up. All at once she became aware of the noises of the house and of the surrounding woods. The trees scratched at the side of the house, water pipes trickled somewhere in the bathroom, floorboards creaked in the kitchen below her…
Mort had been watching the house, watching her, for the last couple of weeks. Once the snow had started falling, however, she stayed mainly in the house. She had seen him a couple of times, but thankfully hadn't reported the incidents to the hokey-pokey Tashmore sheriff. She had been alone this last stretch of time; her husband (he assumed husband by the rings on their fingers) had left only a week or two into their visit.
He stood outside under the overhang of the porch. He was pretty sure she was upstairs, in his bedroom, and had been for a good while. Wondering what exactly he should do, he had been standing there a long moment. He knew he had to get his house back; it was his and he hadn't left it to anyone.
- I'll take care'a her for you, Mr. Rainey. She's tryin' to git involved in thangs she don't understand. She's gonna fin' out whatcha did, and she's gonna turn ya in. – Mort turned and looked at Shooter, who was leaning against the far wall of the porch.
"You mean what you did, Shooter. You did it, not me." Mort said defiantly. Shooter ignored him.
- Don't you know, Mr. Rainey? I know you, what you want to do, - Shooter started towards Mort, - I know you want to go in there an' hurt her 'fore she can do you any wrong. I know wha's hidden in those dark places of yo' mind. I kn- -
"Shooter, you did those things! Not me! You di-." Mort said. His sentence was cut short as Shooter closed the space between them and held Mort up against the porch by his throat.
- I know what it is you did, Mr. Rainey, and there ain't no denying it. You and I both know what you did. – Anger was in Shooter's face, but, as if he had some epiphany, he suddenly became calm and released Mort. He fell to the floor, coughing gently and gasping for air. – I know, Mr. Rainey. I know. I'll take care'a it…-
Mort lost control and blacked out.
June stood frozen on the step stool in the bedroom. The floorboards had not creaked again in at least five minutes and she started feeling silly just standing there, listening to nothing. But she took an umbrella down with her to beat any assailant with.
There was no one in the house, just as she had suspected, and she let out a nervous laugh after she had explored the house and locked the windows and doors. Making something out of nothing, as her mother would have said.
"Something out of nothing," she said aloud, reassuring herself. She checked the locks again, just to be safe.
Just to be safe? Out here alone and you're worried about locked windows? If he really is a murderer, he's not going to worry about locks. He used to live here, remember? Ten years, wasn't it?
Didn't they change the locks? They must've, they had to have. Isn't it a state law or something?
Is it? Are you really safe out here? He could waltz in here any time he wanted, and you'd never know. And who says they followed the law? This is a po-dunk town; they never follow code out in the middle of nowhere… He could be in here right now.
Goosebumps rose from her skin again. Standing next to the fireplace, with a roaring fire going, she still felt ice cold. Her heart began to beat faster as she stood there, as still as she could manage, listening hard. The back of her neck pricked as the hairs stood on end. Silence.
See? Nothing. Silence. No one is here but me. Quit freaking yourself out, June. What would Robert say? He'd laugh at your foolishness and he'd just –
Floorboards creaked somewhere above her, like –
like a man shifting his weight? A certain murderer, Mort Rainey? In your house, unbeknownst to you?
The voice went wild in her head; it was a miracle she could hear over it as she listened towards the ceiling. Again, a slight shuffle and creak, softer this time. Her eyes grew wide. She held her breath. The fire crackled loudly behind her, and she nearly fainted. Instead, she crept to the rack of fire tools and chose the poker.
Once she had carefully, quietly removed it from the rack, she wrapped her sweaty palm around the handle and slunk to the stairs, peering up to the loft. She paused there at the bottom of the stairs, and wiped her palm off on her pant leg. Gripping the poker tightly once more, she made her way up the stairs slowly, cautiously, daring the stairs to squeak. Halfway up, she stopped to listen.
If he's up there, do you actually think you'll be any kind of match for him? You think you'll have the nerve to swing at him? Even if you do, think of the blood, the mess, the questions…
She's right, you know. Just go back down and call the cops. He'll be on you so quick if you try to attack him. And what if he surprises you?
Her body ignored the conversation in her head and continued up the stairs. Once at the top, she stopped, pondering where to look first. There was a sharp, dark corner created by the bookcases and the little window. She started there. Best to not have him sneaking up on me. Poker in hand and poised at the ready, she walked to the corner, checking the desk on the way. Nothing but dark corner. The bedroom door squeaked behind her and she swung around, fury in her stance, but fear in her eyes.
She walked forward, retaining her fighting stance, and in one swift move, she swung the door closed so ferociously that it slammed and echoed throughout the house. Again, nothing there. She took a moment to breathe and to get a better hold on the iron rod. She reached for the door handle and as she touched it, there was a terrible crash in the bathroom followed by hurried steps and a slam and a crash of glass as a window was broken open. She had gasped when the first crash echoed through the house, and the glass breaking made her tear up.
This is serious. He is definitely here; there is no doubt.
Her mind screamed no, but she tore open the bedroom door and jumped in yelling out loud. Her yell was cut short as she saw the great mess before her. The cubby door had been ripped off its hinges and thrown against the opposite side of the room. The boxes of papers and photos had been spilled out all over the place, strewn across the whole room. One photo in particular had been ripped up to shreds and now lay at her feet. She picked up a couple of the larger pieces and noticed it was the one of the man and the woman together. The bedroom window had not been busted. The bathroom. He's in the bathroom, or was.
A new strength infused her and she held the poker tight in her fist. She stormed into the bathroom, poker first. She stopped short at the doorway, taking in the sight before her. A scream escaped her lips, though she could not hear herself.
The tub was brimming with – blood. Oh my god! There's blood in the tub! Spilling over the edges, dripping on the floor with a terrible drop, drop, drop. It soaked the white rug in a terrible coagulated gleam, and it was running down the grout lines of the red and white tile towards her. It sped up, rushing towards her bare toes, coming to dirty her, to make her red with blood. She stepped back quickly onto the bedroom rug. The poker fell from her hand with a loud satisfied clang. Her world went black as she fell backwards.
Chapter 4
Sunlight spilled into the living room, as it so pleasantly did. It found its way into June's eyes and she playfully shielded her eyes as she smiled. "Morning already, my darling Morton?" she said to the daylight.
Morton? Did you say Mort?
She sat up abruptly. No, Robert. I said Robert. "Robert." Robert.
Fear clenched her heart as her mind returned to the second floor bathroom. Her legs wouldn't move; she wanted to run away, run to her car, run to Robert. The house seemed unearthly quiet with none of the regular house-sounds disrupting the silence.
He's here. He's here right now; go look for yourself.
No. He's not here. He jumped out the window, remember?
Was there glass in the bathroom?
The bathroom?
She stood suddenly and raced up the stairs. There had to be blood in the bathroom, she knew that. Was the window broken? Why was she sleeping downstairs? When had she gone down there? Hadn't she fainted?
The bedroom was still a mess, but she paid no mind. It was the bathroom she had to get to. The blood was there; it had to be. She swung open the door. When did I close it? The blood was gone. No blood. No blood. No blood. No blood? Hadn't there been blood?
Is the window busted? He's here, isn't he. The window, is it busted?
Her eyes traced the wall up to the window – crystal clear and not broken.
Oh god.
Oh god
"Oh god."
She spun around, suddenly suspicious of the whole house, and entirely enraged at the window for not being broken. She fled to the bedroom door, slammed it closed and locked it. Satisfied with the momentary safety of the room, she explored its contents, picking up the mess along the way. She found the flashlight under the bed, and lit up the attic cubby. Only dust met her when she looked. Once she had finished organizing and packing the boxes up, she stacked them back in the cubby. She looked around the room and in the cubby. Something is missing. Something that was here before isn't anymore.
Take a closer look. You're a smart girl, I'm sure you'll figure it out.
The hat. The hat is missing. She had a moment of pride over proving herself wrong, but it passed when she realized what was missing. Why would he take the hat?
Because it's his. Weren't never anybody else's.
June spent the day in the room with no incidents. Near evening she grew hungry and her fear had subsided enough that she ventured to the kitchen. She made herself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and poured herself a glass of milk. Sitting in front of the smoldering fire she felt comfortable and safe. This place has a way of doing that to you, she decided. She had dragged the laptop down to the coffee table and it now sat in front of her as she ate her dinner.
She finished her sandwich and milk and stared at the closed laptop on the table. It seemed to call to her somehow, inviting her to glimpse into the mind of an artist.
Since when did he become an artist?
"He was an author before he became a murderer, wasn't he?" she asked the empty house. Her voice should have scared her a little, but it didn't. She opened the laptop and turned on the power. Glancing at the information bar, she saw it had a full battery life available. The computer loaded up and the login screen appeared. "MRainey" was in the first text field, but the second field, the password field, was blank.
She became discouraged. How could she possibly know what his password was? She knew nothing about him at all. Not true. You know his name, his ex-wife's name… what about that manuscript you found upstairs? That name? John "Shooter," she said aloud. She typed in the last name, and it logged in. She sighed and settled into the couch a bit more. A bright red screen met her as the icons popped up on the left side. She explored the "My Documents" section first, and found four files. Most of them were for legal and financial things, but one was titled "Shooter." She pulled open the folder and opened the first of a few files; it was titled the same as the folder. The computer buzzed in protest as it opened the word program and 150 pages loaded up. It was tiny print, all of size 8. She scrolled down, and was shocked at what she saw. The hair on her arms stood on end and she held her breath. "Shooter" was typed, in sixteen perfect rows for 150 pages of text.
"He typed all this?" she asked the house, hoping it would reveal the secrets she wanted to know.
He copied and pasted. He wouldn't have taken all that time to type them individually.
"Yes, he did," she said to herself. "Yes, he did."
A loud knocking at the front door bolted her into the moment. Fear gripped her tightly around the throat. She stared at the door, and instinctively stood and headed down the stairs. He knocked again, louder. She opened the door to find a darkly dressed man standing there. His eyes had dark circles under them, and a pair of dark glasses sat perched on his nose. His hair was mussed and bleached blond. On his head was the hat. He's wearing the hat. He's wearing the hat.
"C-can I help you?" she said. She spoke quickly as she realized she recognized him from the photo on the floor – the man from the photo collection. Mort Rainey. "Aren't you Mort Rainey?" she said, relaxing a little. She tensed again when he spoke.
"Sorry, miss, think you're mistaken. Ain't no Mort here." He spoke with a heavy southern drawl, but some urgency lay underneath the tone. June's eyes darted outside, past him to the lake behind him. Stay calm. Don't let him know you're scared.
"Well, who are you then? What do you want?" she said expectantly.
He tilted his head up some, letting a bit of the late afternoon sun spill onto his cheeks. "What're you doin' in this house?"
"It's mine, I bought it this summer," she spoke, surprised at her conviction.
He stepped into the cabin, forcing her to take a step backward. Anger was in his eyes, but he kept his cool. "Certainly not! Surely you din't buy it from Mr. Rainey; I'd'a heard 'bout it. Now, I ask you again, miss; what're you doing in this house?"
"I told you- I bought it!" she protested.
His voice grew rough and he walked towards her. "Don't lie, now, missy. Wouldn't want to have to hurt you, seeing as you're a lady; ain't my way. But I will if I hav'ta. You need to git outta this house straight away. Mr. Rainey wants it back: he's come for what's his by rights." They had gone around the couch by now, and June was backing into the kitchen when she stopped, determined.
"I will do no such thing! I won't be scared out of my house by some psychopath." What are you doing? Don't piss him off. "I suggest you leave now, before I call the police."
A moment of panic flickered in his eyes, but Shooter controlled it and his features went soft. Calm insanity. "Stealing from poor Mr. Rainey, what a shame," he said to himself as he walked to the doorway. He turned and looked at her again from under the brim of the hat. "I'll be back, you can be sure of tha', miss. I suggest you fin' other accommodations until we can… sort this out." He turned and walked into the woods.
She watched him leave into the north woods. Once he was out of sight, she barricaded the door again and double-checked the locks. As she shoved an upstairs bookcase against the little loft window, a book with a white jacket fell open to a story.
"Secret Window, Secret Garden," she said aloud as she forgot what she was doing and picked up the book. "A woman who would steal your love when your love was all you really had wasn't much of a woman. That at least was Tommy Haverlock's opinion. He therefore decided to kill her." She dropped the book to the floor as though it had burned her. What was that? Why did you freak out? "I don't know," she said plainly.
She picked the book up again and found the story. She carried it gingerly to the transcript of "Sowing Season," sitting down to compare the two stories. She read, switching from book to transcript and back again. The texts were so much alike! She scanned the two for a long while. The sun had begun to descend into a fiery sunset before she even looked up.
The world paled into colors and movements and Mort registered the snow against his cheek. As soon as he was blessed with balance, he had seen Shooter standing against a tree. Mort took account of the situation and his eyes dropped to his hands and clothes for blood. When he found none, he looked up at Shooter, despair in his eyes and anger in his fists.
"Just had a chat with the little miss, nothing more." Shooter lit a cigarette and put out the match. "She's purty, ain't she? She won't be causing you no more trouble, though. Made sure of tha'. Should have your house back 'fore the morn'." He took a drag of his cigarette. "She scares easy, just like you, Mr. Rainey."
"Shooter!" Mort lunged at him, but Shooter stepped aside, and Mort fell face-first into the muddy snow. He jumped to his feet again, ready for another go, and swung fast and hard at Shooter, who easily turned the attempt around onto Mort. He shoved Mort's face against a tree, his left arm binding behind his back and a great force against his back, holding him tight and rough.
Pain shredded Mort's cheek, and he let out a muffled cry. He quit struggling quickly; the bark was a terrible agony on his frostbitten face.
"Don't you be pitchin' no fit with me, Mr. Rainey. You and I both know why I'm here, and that you can't touch me, let alone kill me – you don't have the stomach for it, remember?" Shooter gave him a final hard shove into the tree, scratching Mort's face worse, and the pressure released. Mort swung around, ready to face him and respond, but the woods were empty. Anger and frustration washed over him but passed after a moment and he reached up to nurse his face. Blood seeped from the scratch in his cheek and a long welt was forming on his forehead above his left eye.
With a handful of clean snow pressed to his forehead, he cleaned up all the blood he could and headed back to the cabin to see what damage had been done.
With the danger presently absent, June managed to calm down and restarted the fire. She busied herself with cleaning up the bedroom. She'd nearly forgotten the incident with Shooter when there was a knock at the front door.
The windows were so frosted over she couldn't see out, so she cautiously called out. "Who is it?"
"Mort. Mort Rainey. Please, I need to talk to you."
Fear surged through Jane. She saw Shooter walking towards her, backing her up, his angry eyes below the edge of the hatShe took a breath and called out, "Go away! I told you before I wouldn't leave! The police are on the way!"
No, they're not. The phone line's been out for days.
"Please, ma'am. I need to talk to you!"
"I already talked to you – to John Shooter – whoever he was – go away! I'm warning you!" Her voice cracked a bit. She was scared to death.
"No! That wasn't me – that wasn't me! Please, let me in so we can sort this out."
June shivered at his words. Until we can… sort this out.
Go away. Go away. Go away. "Please go away," she spoke to the door.
Mort sat there for a moment, unsure of what to do. He finally turned to the path away from the house. June tried the phone before she went to bed. It was still dead.
It was uneasy sleep for the both of them that night. Shooter haunted both their dreams. Shooter raged inside Mort's head, while working his black magic on June.
Shooter showed her images of her husband and his secretary in June's bed, making love on their covers. On the quilt wedding gift her mother had given them on that perfect little day. Her dream changed, then, to that day, their wedding day. They were younger, happier. But she saw him, Robert, her husband, kissing, holding, fucking her maid of honor in the priest's chambers. On their wedding day. Sadness swept over June – she felt as though a giant steel hook had pierced her heart and had begun to drag her downward. It pulled her down to her knees in the mud outside the window. Her perfect white dress soiled in the mud.
That's not how it happened. You were in your casuals, and you didn't kneel – you just saw them is all. You saw them, held back the tears, and put on a smile. Even through the ceremony as they watched you walk down the aisle in your perfect white dress you smiled, held your head high – you never told him you saw. You never told him, you know. He doesn't know you know.
They were all in June's bedroom now, and June was watching him and her; their pale skin contrasted sharply against the red silk sheets that June and Robert had bought together. The mud kept spilling off her dress – pouring down – burying her perfect white shoes in the dark, dirty mud; she couldn't run – she couldn't move – she couldn't breathe.
Chapter 5
The morning passed slowly for June, and with the memory of the dream swimming around in her head, she had managed to will herself to call Robert to come down to the cabin. She chose to look through the files on the house she had received from Gabe. Sifting through the house plans, building permits and bills she discovered a small packet of photos that she had never noticed before. She opened it and shuffled through them. They were mostly photos of the house before it had been papered and painted. The outside porch had been oak and the floors had been empty except for the occasional pile of clothes.
She pulled out a photo of the upstairs loft walls. The word "Shooter" had been gouged into the wood all over the place. Even on the back of the bedroom door. It had since been papered to match the walls. Her eyes traced the walls of the loft. Curiosity overtook her and she bolted up the stairs to the wallpaper edges. Grabbing hold of a loose piece she ripped it away from the wall to reveal wooden logs. She pulled more and more off, in long strips or large chunks. She paused to see what she had unveiled.
"Shooter." Shooter.
The front door handle squeaked and she spun around to face the door. It opened and Shooter appeared in the doorway. She walked down to him, in a daze, but suddenly understanding him. She had cheated. The girl in the photo had slept with another man. Just like he did to me.
"Miss, are you here? I've come to talk t'you again. I heard you there, last night, miss. I'd like to talk to you 'bout that," he said in a soft southern accent. "I know what he did t'ya, miss. Terrible thing he done to you. I'd like ta make it better for you. You gotta help me out though."
June felt that hook in her heart again. Pulling down. She fought it; she had to. Her mind raged and she felt cold and dark inside. Alone. "No!" she said to herself, and to Shooter, who stood calmly in the doorway. She spun around, towards the stairs. She'd felt this before, when she saw him and her, when he stayed late nights at the office, while she was away from the house, like now. She would not succumb to it; she would not give in to the pain. But it had never been like this. It was supposed to be perfect; it was perfect; it has to be perfect.
Make it perfect then.
"Make it perfect, June," Shooter said to her from the top of the stairs.
"Make it perfect. Perfect." She walked up the stairs to him; each step seemed easier than the last.
Shooter reached out to her. "I'll show you how to make it stop hurting." He led her to the second floor bath. It was brimming with water. He helped her into the water and set her head down below the surface. The perfect wife; the perfect death. Perfect.
Mort looked out, watched as he helped her. Watched as he filled the tub, helped her into the water, lowered her head, held her down. He saw her placid expression as she emptied her lungs of air. Mort screamed, frenzied. He slammed against the walls of his mind. The light dimmed and it was dark then.
When he could see again, he was standing in the first- floor bathroom, staring in the mirror. His vision focused and he sprinted to the second-floor bath. Her arm rested still, hanging out of the tub with her pale corpse floating in the muddy water. The red and white tile was filthy with the mud-water. Mort turned away – he couldn't stand to look in her cold, dead eyes.
"SHOOTER!" he cried as he ran down the stairs and out the door. His voice cut short at the sound of a car pulling up to the house. He turned and hid behind the edge of the house.
What are you going to do?
"You know what you have to do, Mr. Rainey," Shooter said, walking up from the garden behind him. Mort was so infuriated he could've cried. No time for that, you have to take care of this. Now.
It wasn't long before the man in the car had come into the house, searched the first floor and had ascended to the second floor. Mort followed him up the stairs, choosing the scissors on the desk, and waited for him to go in the bathroom.
"June?" the man called. "June-bug? Are you here?" His voice went silent a moment as he stepped into the red and white bathroom. Mort crept up to the bedroom wall when the man had run up to the bathroom. He called her name over and over again, but she would never wake now. Never wake.
Best do it now, while he's not struggling. While he's not expecting it.
Mort walked in behind him, scissors-blades open, and perched over this man, this disloyal husband, mourning his wife. You didn't deserve her, you bastard.
He reached down and cut open the man's throat over the tub. He spilled Robert Torone's blood into his wife's final bath. Red, dirty water poured down over the edge of the basin, roared along the grout lines, charging towards Mort's toes. He scurried backwards, away from the blood. Like the rat you are. Murderer.
"It wasn't me! It was Shooter!" Mort cried out desperately.
"But it were you this time, pilgrim. I din't have nothing to do with it this time. It was your hands on the blades. Your hands," Shooter said to him. There was no sympathy in his voice. Your hands. It's always been your hands, Mort. Only yours. Amy's voice echoed in his head, one of the few times it had.
He supported himself the doorway, staring at the bodies of this couple lying in his bathtub and it dawned on him. Always been my hands. But now it doesn't matter. All that matters is the ending. "All that matters is the ending. Had to fix the ending. Had to make it perfect."