Author's Note: Thanks everybody for reviewing! You all ROCK! Sorry this one took so long…school, you know how it is…Anywho, I strongly recommend that you go back and review my story, 'cause I adjusted some of it, and some of those changes are crucial to the plot. If you don't, oh well. Just enjoy and REVIEW!!!
CHAPTER EIGHT
His name was Chanley, and he was nine and a half. Not nine, nine and a half. Chanley's mother had left for work two days earlier, the night shift, and had never come home. When Chanley and Mark walked out the door and into the sunshine, hand in hand, Chanley had pointed excitedly at the green car that Mark had passed when he had first entered the main part of town. "That's my mom's car!" Chanley yelled, breaking free and running towards the car.
Mark felt the color drain from his face. "No, Chanley!" he called desperately. But Chanley had already reached the car. Any moment then, Mark would hear the screaming, the horrified shrieks…
Chanley came back to him, head hung in disappointment. "Empty," he muttered, his eyes kept on the ground.
Mark jogged over to the car, brow furrowed. The front seat of the car was stained red and ripped, the stuffing exposed, but the body was gone. Mark took a few steps back, glancing around the street worriedly. "Let's go." Mark held out his hand, and Chanley took it, his shoulders slumped in frustration.
"Mark?" Chanley looked up at him, eyes wide.
"Hmm?"
"Do you know what happened to my mom?"
Mark didn't answer right away. Instead, he turned his gaze to the Marsten House, standing on the hill before them, laughing at them in its malevolent splendor. A shiver ran up his spine, causing him to shudder. He glanced down at Chanley, wondering what to say. Mark didn't have much experience with caring for others; the only person he had ever needed to worry about was himself. "I'm sure she's okay, Chanley."
Chanley's head drooped, and he shoved his tiny hands in the pockets of his jeans. Mark sighed, instantly sensing that Chanley didn't believe him. "Maybe she's like Grandpa now." He rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. "I don't want to find her if she is."
Mark stopped suddenly and turned to him. "Hey." Chanley raised his head and looked at him, eyes filled with doubt. "I'm not going to leave you behind." The boy gave him a small smile. "But I have to do something very dangerous right now. The…the bad guys took a friend of mine. I have to go save her." He hesitated, running his fingers through his hair. "You don't have to come with me. In fact, I don't want you to." Chanley looked up at him, eyes wide. "They won't hurt you during the day. You can stay in my…"
Chanley clutched Mark's arm desperately. "You can't leave me by myself! I'm…I don't…" He dissolved into tears, sniffling and bawling. "I ca-can't be b-by myself. I'm so sc-scared…"
Mark knelt next to him, meeting his bloodshot eyes. "I don't want to have to be responsible for you. It's going to be scary, even for me; I'm walking right into the lion's den, Chanley!"
"I'd rather have to fight a bunch of lions than my Grandpa," Chanley whispered. "He was so scary…"
Mark was about to say no, refuse; he would sling Chanley over his shoulder, throw him into Robyn's house through the front door, and bolt the lock. But the fear that shone in Chanley's eyes…complete, naïve trust…Mark felt himself give in. "You'll have to stay alert. And you can't make noise. Don't be scared by anything you see, and don't look any of the bad guys in the eye."
Chanley nodded solemnly, as if he had just been issued a draft card. "Where are we going?"
"Up there," Mark responded, pointing to the Marsten House.
Chanley's face paled. "Up…there?" he murmured, his voice cracking.
"If you're not up to it, Chanley…"
The boy shook his head vigorously. "Let's go."
Main Street was completely flooded, the water almost reaching the top of the concrete sidewalk on which Mark and Chanley walked. Dead mice and rats floated past them, Chanley staring, fascinated, at their tiny immobile bodies. Mark grimaced and averted his eyes.
They reached the bottom of the hill. "Do you believe in monsters?" Chanley asked suddenly, his voice hushed in a whisper.
Mark's eyes remained locked on the house. "Yes."
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She awoke in complete darkness. At first, she couldn't see anything…she was frozen in terror. 'I'm blind!' she thought, horrified. Then, as her eyes adjusted to the black shadows, the room came into focus. Something cold and wet fell onto her face. She looked up, and another drop trickled onto her cheek. Leaky pipes. She was in a basement.
Robyn was acutely aware of a dull throbbing in her head. She tried to reach up to her face with her hands, but she stopped suddenly. She couldn't move her limbs; she was paralyzed. Frantically, she looked around and saw her arms chained above her head, locked onto the pipe that leaked water. The cuffs rattled, rust flaking off and falling into her hair. She dangled from the chain helplessly, her toes barely skimming the cold, hard floor.
A door, quite nearby judging by the sound of it, slammed shut. Robyn's eyes grew wide. The distinct sound of footsteps echoed on the other side of the wall, the creaking of old floorboards causing the walls to shudder. They stopped outside the door, and Robyn heard the click of a lock. A moment later, Ulric Pierson stepped inside. With an unhesitating air of confidence, he walked up to her and reached out his hand towards her face. Robyn flinched, but Pierson simply smiled and pulled a chain that dangled next to her ear. A light bulb next above them flickered, the quiet tinkling of electricity buzzing overhead.
"You have a nasty cut on your forehead, Ms. Evanoff. You'll want to have that looked at soon."
She glared at him and, without breaking the gaze, bent her elbow towards her face and rubbed it against her forehead. It scraped against a large, newly-formed scab on her left temple. The moment she touched it, she felt the skin tear away and blood pour freely from the freshly opened wound. It dripped down into her eyes, and she blinked it away furiously. "What did you do to Mark?" she demanded, her eyes narrowing. "Why isn't he here yet?"
Pierson shrugged nonchalantly. "Your guess is as good as mine. Perhaps his friend Ms. Lawry convinced him that staying here would result in…less-than-enjoyable consequences."
"Liar," she whispered.
He gave a long, exaggerated sigh. "It's a shame, really. He missed a great opportunity. A chance to…begin again, if you will. Wipe the slate clean. Turn over a new leaf."
"What are you talking about?"
"His grandmother, my dear. She has been seeking him…desperately seeking…" he murmured.
"So she's real…?" Robyn gasped, shocked.
Pierson smiled wickedly. "Oh, yes, Ms. Evanoff. She's real. And if Master Petrie fails to make an appearance, you shall have the pleasure of making her acquaintance."
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Robert Jackson sat at his desk, tapping the tip of his pen against the edge of the keyboard. Frustrated, he ran his grizzled hand through his long dark blonde hair. Suddenly, he slammed his fist down on the wood. The raven-haired woman in the cubicle next to him jumped.
"What's wrong, Bobby?" she asked, getting up and walking over to him, leaning down towards the computer screen.
He sighed. "What do you think is wrong, Janette? I haven't had a decent article in God knows how long…I mean, I haven't found a damn thing in the police reports or nothing…"
"Anything. You haven't found a damn thing in the police reports or anything." She smiled wryly. "What did you expect? Derry isn't exactly the most 'happening' place around. If you wanted to write for a real paper, you should have moved to New York or L.A. Not Maine."
Bobby closed his bloodshot eyes. "I've called Ryans twice today. Nothing. The bastard won't even take my calls anymore. His secretary gives me the old, 'He's in an important conference,' spiel and hangs up on me." He looked over at Janette and frowned.
Janette shrugged. "I don't have any advice to give you…I'm in the same spot you are. This newspaper is going down the tube. We both know it, and I assume Frank does, too."
Picking up his bag from the floor, Bobby laughed hollowly. "You assume much if you think Frank has any idea as to what's going on. The man can hardly remember what he ate for breakfast."
Frank Dietz was the CEO of the Derry County weekly newspaper staff. At seventy-five, Frank clung to the paper as his only foundation for excitement in his quickly fading life. His wife had died of a stroke the year before, and his son, fifty-two at the time, suffered a heart attack while playing golf in Georgia one week later. With his memory swiftly evaporating, the only thing Frank hadn't lost was his quick wit and dry sense of humor. But lately, Derry County had been overgrown with old gossip and dull, uninteresting news on which no newspaper could ever report.
Janette smiled good-naturedly. "He means well. But if this paper is going to stay in business for another year, we need more news. And we can't deny it anymore: Derry is going to pot. People are moving out left and right." She turned and walked to her desk. "It isn't just us, either. Amsted and Cumberland are suffering, too." Janette paused, leaning behind her computer to switch it off. "Most of the towns around here aren't even registered with Maine's legislature. I mean, I haven't visited Hummel Valley in over two years, not to mention the fact that I've never even seen 'Salem's Lot since it was reconstructed. I don't know if anyone's even living there. It's probably a ghost town by now…" Janette continued rambling, glancing back over her shoulder. "Honestly, would you want to live in a town that just went up in flames without any explanation? And all those people; they just disappeared…" She gathered her things and then looked back at him, grinning. "So if you happen to find anything on your way home, don't hog it all for yourself. Give me a call," she said jokingly.
Bobby smirked, but made no reply. Stuffing the few notes he had written over the past week into his briefcase, he threw on his overcoat and headed for the door. He heard the faint farewell of Janette float through the halls as he strolled down the darkened corridor and out to his 1994 Ford truck.
The dirt road that stretched out from the town was unusually dusty, the clouds of dirt rising from the ground like fog. Small stones hit the bottom of Bobby's Jeep, making a loud clunking noise every few seconds. A half-hour later, he came up to the fork where the road split unevenly. The right path became concrete, while the left remained unpaved and narrow, overgrown with weeds and tree branches. He slowed his car to a stop.
For no particular reason, Bobby hesitated and flicked on his high beams. He could see the left path starting up into a slope, going higher and higher until the tops of the trees blocked his line of sight. Bobby had never been up that road. He had never been tempted to, either. Normally, he was in a hurry to get home to his sister and brother-in-law. Today, however, Bobby was overcome by a strange sense of stirring curiosity.
He swung his steering wheel to the left and started up the hill. The rusty old sign to the right hand side of the road went unnoticed. The bushes and brambles covered the peeling painted words. One side of the sign was completely coated with a furry green moss, so now it read, "---salem's Lot, 15 miles."
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The forest surrounding Jerusalem's Lot is always pitch black, even in the middle of the day, when the sun is highest in the sky. December, in its arctic wintriness, never succeeds in its attempts to rob the trees of their natural fullness. Pine trees never loose their needles.
As soon as one passes over the snowcapped mountains that encompass the Lot and its woods, it as if a veil is drawn over their eyes. All becomes gray and misty, little color brightens the fields as they drive past the dilapidated sign welcoming visitors into the town. But Jerusalem's Lot rarely has the pleasure of housing visitors. There is just something cold about the place…
As one drives through the abandoned streets of the Lot, an icy chill makes its way up the spine, clutching the mind in a web of thoughts pertaining to death, fear, and loneliness. The roads are normally empty, and few pedestrians walk the streets. Those that do grace the sidewalks tread along as though their legs are weighed down by bags of lead or stone. Some just stand on the corners, staring up at the dark deity that sits above the town, watching them.
This is what Bobby Jackson saw as he drove down Main Street. Two figures waited by a broken traffic light, their heads tilted up towards the large house atop the hill. The smaller of the two hugged himself, clutching his body for warmth. The other was motionless, as though made of marble. The little one, assumedly a child, pulled on the arm of his friend, and they started across the street, oblivious of the car. Bobby slammed his brakes and blew the horn.
"Watch where you're going, will you?" he shouted angrily, opening the door of his car and sticking his head out.
The two travelers stared at the car as though they were deer caught in the beam of headlights. Bobby suddenly felt an unexplainable discomfort as they watched him, their bodies completely frozen. "Are you two alright?"
The taller one pulled the child behind him protectively. "Who are you?" he called, his voice deep and filled with suspicion. His dark eyes gleamed, hair falling in front of his face.
Bobby took a few cautious steps towards them, holding up his hands to show he was harmless. "I'm Bobby, Bobby Jackson. Reporter for the Derry Times." He reached out his hand to the smaller boy, but the child shrunk away from him, his blue eyes wide. "I don't want to hurt you…" The two companions said nothing. "What happened here? Where is everybody?"
"They're all still here…" The boy looked up at the buildings that were surrounding, almost engulfing them. "They're sleeping," he whispered, as if afraid of waking the unseen people.
Bobby glanced up at the older one, hoping for an explanation, but he just received a cold, stony stare.
"What are you guys' names?" Bobby asked uncertainly.
"I'm Chanley," the little boy answered, staring up at Bobby. "This is Mark." He pulled on his friend's jacket, his small hand grasping the dark blue wool-like material of Mark's sleeve.
Bobby bent down next to him, putting on his warmest smile. "And where are you and Mark going?"
"Up there." Chanley pointed to something behind Bobby. He turned, and his eyes were immediately drawn to the dark outline of a house atop the hill that overlooked the town.
Turning from Chanley to Mark, Bobby asked, "Why?"
"What's it to you?" Mark responded, his eyes narrowing. Bobby frowned, confused and somewhat insulted.
"I'm just…curious, is all. I've never been here before, and there isn't anybody around. It's like the place is dead…"
Mark gave a loud, hollow laugh, but his eyes remained cold. "This place isn't dead; in fact, I'd classify it as undead." Bobby's brow furrowed. "If you have nothing else to ask, Mr. Reporter, I'd suggest you leave. Soon, if possible." Mark smiled wryly. "In fact, I'd leave right now."
"What's going on around here? If something happened, I want to help." Bobby folded his arms over his chest.
"You wouldn't believe us, let alone help. You're wasting your time." Mark turned to leave.
"Mark…" Mark looked down at Chanley, his eyes forming perfect circles. "Let him stay. Maybe he could help get your friend back." Mark glanced at Bobby, his eyes intense and distrustful, before returning his gaze to Chanley. "We can't do it by ourselves. There are too many of them, and I'm…" Chanley hesitated, dropping his eyes to the sidewalk. "I'm scared…"
Bobby looked between the two of them, utterly bewildered. 'Too many of them?' What the hell did that mean? "Listen, you guys, maybe you should get in touch with the sheriff. He…"
Mark snorted. "Too late. He's gone."
"Gone where?"
There was a moment of absolute stillness before Mark turned to face Bobby. "Mr. Jackson…" Mark gave him a strange half-grin, his eyes gleaming. "Have you ever heard of a place called Hell?"
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Once again, Mark found himself in the passenger seat of a vehicle traveling up to the Marsten House. Not for the first time, he wondered why he had allowed himself to welcome an obvious trap with open arms. Robyn, he thought silently. Robyn is up there.
Chanley sat in the back seat, chewing lightly on the tip of his thumb. He stared out the window, but his eyes were not directed up at the house; instead, he was watching the houses in the center of town. Mark turned back to look at him, eyes softening at the sight of the small child. He looked so fragile, almost untouched by everything he had seen. Mark looked into his eyes, and for a moment, he thought he saw something strange…indescribable, dark. A second later, the bright blueness returned, and Chanley looked up at Mark, eyes wide in innocence. Mark hesitated, then turned back around to face the Marsten House.
The car slowed to a stop in the driveway. Bobby turned to Mark, frowning slightly. "What exactly are you hoping to find here, Mark? This place looks like it hasn't been lived in for fifty years." He peered out the window, his eyes scanning the outside of the house.
Mark raised his eyebrows. "That's funny, being that the town was rebuilt two years ago." Without waiting for a reply, he opened the door and stepped out, shivering in the cold autumn air.
Bobby shrugged and followed suit, pulling his scarf up around his ears and his hat down over his long blonde hair. Chanley remained in the car, clutching his knees to his chest.
"Come on, Chanley. We have to get inside," Mark called through the glass, rapping on the window. The boy shook his head, his eyes locked on Mark's. Mark turned to Bobby helplessly.
"Why can't you just lock the doors and let him stay there? Maybe the house freaks him out…" Bobby said. "I mean, I'd be scared if I was his age." He glanced nervously up at the windows of the Marsten House, and they almost seemed to stare dauntlessly back.
Mark looked back at Chanley, torn between responsibilities. "I have to get her, Chanley! Please!" No response. Mark's shoulders slumped, and he ran his fingers through his hair. "Could you stay out here with him, Jackson? I need to get in there before it's too late…"
"Yeah. Okay," Bobby replied a little too enthusiastically. Mark didn't care. "When will you be back?"
"As soon as possible. But you have to be ready when we get outside; we might have to get out of here pretty damn quick." Mark took a few steps towards the Marsten House before turning back one last time. "You're sure you're okay with this?" he asked apprehensively.
Bobby nodded. "Get going. You said you were in a hurry." Mark exhaled slowly, then jogged up the front stairs. He stood in front of the door for a second before grasping the knob and turning it. "Aren't you gonna knock first?" Bobby called up to him.
Mark didn't reply. Instead, he stepped inside, his head turning from side to side anxiously in the darkness. He shut the door with a soft thud, and Bobby and Chanley were left alone.
The stench hadn't changed. It was the first thought that ran through Mark's head as he stood inside. It smelled exactly as it did the last time he was inside…no, not the last time. It was the same odor he had smelled when he was with Susan, when Barlow had been hiding in the basement…
Slowly, the utter silence of the house dawned on him. If a pin had dropped in the room next to him, Mark was sure he would have had a heart attack. Suddenly, he had the strange urge to scream at the top of his lungs, beat his chest, hoot and holler…anything to break the quiet. An odd buzzing sound filled his ears, and it took a moment for him to realize that it was simply the silence, ringing piercingly through the halls.
Cautiously, Mark made his way to the basement. There was no doubt in his mind as to where Pierson was keeping her. 'Bad guys usually don't waver from tradition,' the child within him whispered. He opened the door slowly, the soft creaking almost deafening to his ears.
"Mark?" He froze. Robyn. "I can't see. It's so dark…" No. Not Robyn…Susan. But Susan was dead. Susan had burned in the fire. Another voice floated up from the shadows.
"Come down, boy…" Mark clamped his hands over his ears. It wasn't real. It wasn't real. Ben had shoved a stake through that bastard's heart. "I admire you. Come down for a taste…" And yet he heard it; he could never forget that deep, gravelly voice. "There's enough here for two…"
A hand reached up for him in the darkness, and before Mark could react, it grasped the collar of his shirt.
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Mark was ready to shout, an icy chill shooting down his back, but the hand quickly found his mouth and clamped it shut. "Don't…say…a word…" a voice hissed up at him.
Robyn's face peered up at him through the blackness, pale and damp with sweat. "What are you doing here?"
Gaping incredulously at her, he replied, "What am I doing? I'm getting you out of here!" The groan of flooring echoed above them, and he pulled her down into the shadows.
"I thought you left…"
Mark stared at her, his deep brown eyes penetrating her soft green ones. "Why would I do that? Who said I left…?"
"Mr. Pierson. I didn't believe him at first, but when you didn't come, I started to wonder…"
"How did you get out?"
Robyn gave him a small smile. "Don't underestimate what a girl will do in a tight spot." She reached up towards her red hair and pulled out a small brown bobby pin. Holding it up to him, she said, "You wouldn't believe what these babies can do, Mr. Petrie."
The small shimmer of light that fell through the crack beneath the door went out. The creak of floorboards overhead meant one thing: someone was directly outside the door. Before either Mark or Robyn had time to respond, the basement door flew open and Ulric Pierson stood before them, grinning upon them as one might look at a vat of chocolate.
With one sudden, fluid motion, he stretched out his arm and shoved Robyn roughly downwards, causing her to topple into Mark. Together, they fell down the wooden stairs, each thump echoing through the basement. Mark landed first, on his back, the hard concrete floor causing an intense twinge of pain to burst up his spine. Hearing the thuds of Robyn's body as she plummeted down towards him, Mark tried to roll over, but the throbbing in his back stopped him in his tracks. Robyn landed on top of him, her elbow digging into his ribcage.
Pierson's dark outline descended the stairs with menacing indolence. Robyn sank beneath his shadow, pressing herself against the brick wall behind them. Mark stood up slowly, his eyes not wavering from Pierson's face. "Look, I'm here, alright? You don't need her."
The grin that was dancing across Pierson's face widened. "I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about, Master Petrie. Who said you were the only objective?" Mark hesitated, keeping silent. Pierson gave a loud, exaggerated sigh. "Conceited Master Petrie, always thinking of himself…always assuming that he's the object of everyone's attention. I would be willing to…please pardon the pun, stake…gamble, if you will, that it never crossed your mind that your Ms. Evanoff is a key ingredient in our plans, too."
Mark froze, confusion clouding his mind. He glanced over his shoulder at Robyn, whose eyes had become wide, glassy circles, before turning back to Pierson. "What are you talking about?"
"Let me tell you a little story, Master Petrie." Mark didn't reply, instead turning his gaze to the small window at the top of the ceiling. The sun was past its halfway point…perhaps three or four in the afternoon. Only a few hours left. He looked back at Pierson, eyes narrowed.
"Once upon a time, a man came to Jerusalem's Lot. With him, he brought his partner, a creature of unspeakable power. They had plans to flourish in the new land, plans that could not fail. But two people intercepted these arrangements, destroying the man and the great immortal being. So, a few years later, another man came to the Lot with only one plot: revenge. Revenge on those who had murdered his father and his father's master." Pierson leaned forwards, his face inches from Mark's. "Revenge that will be fulfilled."
Mark felt his heart skip a beat, his breath shortening. "His…father?" he whispered in shock. "You're…?"
"Ulric Pierson Straker. Son of the Immortal One's right-hand man, his partner, his comrade." Pierson narrowed his eyes, glaring at Mark intensely. "So how is it a skinny little fourteen-year-old boy like yourself managed to defeat the Unholy Creature's helper?" His eyes drifted lazily over to Robyn. "Or how did a pretty-boy writer destroy the Unholy Creature itself?"
Mark's gaze darted between Robyn and Pierson anxiously. "How does Robyn fit into any of this? If you have a bone to pick with someone, it should be me. She hasn't done anything…"
"Ben Mears can no longer suffer…well, he can no longer suffer anywhere that I can reach him. Perhaps the burning flames of Hell will suffice." Pierson smiled his houndish grin. "I would consider him lucky, throwing himself from that window. Perhaps he deduced that we were close behind. His pain was negligible, his agony, short-lived. Quite unlike yours will be, Master Petrie." Smirking, Pierson glanced over at Robyn. "And so, his family will have to bear his anguish and torture for his cowardice."
"But Ben died in a car accident. My mom told me he…" Robyn started, mouth quivering.
"Obviously your mother wanted to save you the mortification, the disgrace of knowing your uncle murdered a priest and then committed suicide like the coward he was." Pierson leered at the two of them. "Can you imagine what the doctors around him said as he died? 'Did you lather on the sunscreen, Mr. Mears? I've heard those fires of Hell are quite scorching…' I doubt much pity is taken on a person who slays a man of God."
Mark stared at Robyn, his eyes filled with astonishment. "Your uncle…? Ben was…you're related to…?" He backed up into the concrete wall, his head spinning. Pierson's gaze followed him, focused and amused. "You…you're a liar," Mark mumbled, clutching the side of his head with his hand. "Straker didn't have kids. I know you're lying…"
But as he looked into Pierson's eyes, he saw a familiar flicker of malice, dark and cold. Unmistakably similar to Richard Straker's gaze, identically as haunting, just as it had appeared two years before. The malevolent, calculating glint that windowed a sinisterly brilliant mind…it was the same. And Mark knew it.
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"Would you like to meet your grandmother, Master Petrie?"
Mark pulled himself out of his trance. He gaped at Pierson, mouth open skeptically. "What?"
Pierson took a step forward. "Your grandmother. I have her here. Do you wish to see her?"
Robyn grasped his shoulder. "Mark, don't, I think he's…"
He pulled away, his eyes locked on Pierson's. "What did you do to her?" he growled.
Pierson held up both hands innocently. "I have not harmed a hair on her head, Master Petrie. She is locked away safely, awaiting your arrival. You may speak with her, if you so desire."
"Mark," Robyn hissed in his ear. "Don't go. I think it's a trap. She isn't really your grandmother; she's…"
"Come along, Master Petrie. She has been dying to meet you."
"Trust me on this, Mark!"
"Mustn't keep your dear old grandmamma waiting…"
"Don't…"
"We must…"
A child's shriek pierced the air around them, loud, shrill, and terrified. "Chanley!" Mark gasped. He ran towards the cellar door, the streams of sunlight illuminating his struggles with the locks. Finally, frustrated, he turned towards the window above him, when suddenly a hand grabbed onto his arm. Mark turned to see Pierson, his eyes wide and glassy. His teeth were clenched in anger, and the vein above his temple throbbed.
"Where…are you…going, Master…Petrie?" he moaned through gritted teeth, the corners of his mouth twisted into a fanatical grin. The grip on Mark's arm was bone-crushingly tight, the blood draining from his hand. Almost instinctively, Mark drew his hand into a fist and launched it at Pierson's face, feeling his nose crush beneath his knuckles.
Pierson screamed, his hands instantly retreating from Mark's arm and covering the lower half of his face. Blood streamed from between his fingers, little crimson rivers running down his wrists.
Mark turned wildly, searching for Robyn. "Come on! Chanley…" Robyn appeared next to him, her eyes wide.
"What's going on, Mark?"
"Not now…we have to get out of here. Here…" He pushed open the door and bent down, grasping her ankles. "Ready?" She nodded uncertainly. Mark lifted her off the ground, up towards the window.
Robyn pulled herself up, her arms scraping against the wooden paneling. Pushing herself along, she turned to help Mark. He reached up to her, grasping her hand, when he felt arms around his neck. Mark swung his head around and came face-t-face with Pierson's glowering eyes.
Pierson had gone completely mad; his eyes were bloodshot, and perspiration dripped down his face in buckets. Grinning wildly, he squeezed his arms together, cutting off Mark's air. Mark began to choke, his knees going limp beneath him. Darkness began to gather around the corners of his eyes, and he felt himself grow dizzy, unstable…
Robyn's foot shot out of nowhere, her toes connecting with the side of Pierson's face with an ear-splitting crunch. Howling, Pierson stumbled backwards, a new gash appearing on his upper jawbone. Mark scrambled up out of the basement, casting one final look over his shoulder. He and Pierson made eye contact, their eyes burning fire into the other's face. Mark felt Robyn's hands on his arm, and he got up, shaking, to his feet.
"Are you okay, Mark? Mark?" Robyn looked hesitantly into his eyes, her mouth trembling.
Slowly, he nodded, massaging his neck delicately. His eyes grew wide. "Chanley…" he breathed, taking off around the side of the house. Robyn followed him, baffled.
As she rounded the corner of the Marsten House, she nearly collided with Mark, who stood stock-still, staring at the driveway. Robyn peered around his shoulder. "Mark, what…?"
A truck sat amidst the gravel, empty. Not too far away, a body lay, bleeding, the legs and arms spread apart, putting the image of snow-angels in Robyn's mind. Mark rushed over to the person.
"Jackson!" He knelt next to him, inspecting the gash on the side of Bobby's head. It wasn't too deep; just bad enough to render him unconscious. Mark sighed with relief…for one awful moment, he had thought Bobby Jackson was…
"Mark?" Robyn ran up next to him, propping Bobby's head up into her lap. "This is Chanley?"
"No…" Mark stood up slowly, his eyes fixed on the empty truck. "No, that isn't Chanley."