The Mammoth Book of Ghost Stories by Women Part 11

Somewhere nearby she heard soft crying and a sound of scratching. She tried to speak, to ask who it was, but her voice was nothing more than cool breath on hot air.

She waited.

The motel room door was unlocked. Someone came in, pulling something with wheels that rattled.

Who is it? Rufus? The Prophet? What do they have planned for me? Is it Fawn, here to help me?

A vacuum cleaner turned on and run back and forth for a few minutes, the sound of water running in the bathroom, then the door opening, closing again.

Where are Rufus and the Prophet? How long have I been here?

She tried to open the door but her hands were too weak to work. Up on her knees, she leaned her weight against the door and shook the k.n.o.b, but it did not turn.

"Help me!" she cried, but no one heard her, and no one came to help.

And so she closed her eyes and waited.

She came around when she heard the motel room door opening again. Two sets of footsteps, one heavy and certain, one light and shuffling.

Rufus? Are you back? Who is with you? It doesn't sound like the Prophet. Why are you leaving me here? Please let me out!

Voices. One man, one woman.

The man sounded young. He said, "Lay here, Julie. And don't you worry a bit. I'll be right back."

The bedsprings squealed. She groaned, then said, "Don't f.u.c.king leave me, Bob."

"I got to. You wait here. I'll get help and everything will be OK."

"I don't feel OK!"

"Just cut it out. Don't panic. Jeez."

"I hurt! d.a.m.n you for doing this to me!"

"You did this to you, too, don't forget!"

"My stomach hurts so bad, Bob!"

"Yeah, and the sooner I get out of here, the sooner I'll be back. Here's my cell. In case ..."

"In case what? I want to order a pizza? Owwww!"

"d.a.m.n it, Julie! I'm leaving!"

"Fine! Get the h.e.l.l out of here."

"Get some sleep."

She groaned and cried out, "f.u.c.k that! I hate you!"

The door opened, shut. Charity angled her head, listening. The woman on the bed was panting, sucking air through her teeth.

"h.e.l.lo?" Charity called, but the woman did not hear her. The panting grew louder, more anxious. Then, weeping, moaning, cursing. Then the panting grew softer, slower.

Then silence.

Charity tried the door but was still unable to open it.

So she waited.

The man came back. He coughed, called Julie's name, then said, "Ah, s.h.i.+t." He left, slamming the door. The door rattled on its hinges.

Charity waited. Then she said, "h.e.l.lo?"

There was a long pause, then a tremulous "h.e.l.lo" in return.

Charity's heart leaped.

"Julie?"

"Yes, who are you?"

"Charity. I'm in the closet. I can't open the door from in here. Can you help me?"

Julie was silent, then said, "I don't know. Let me try."

A whisper-soft movement across the rug outside the closet. Then, "I can't seem to grasp the handle. What's wrong with me?"

"I think you're hurt. I heard you and that man. Bob. You were angry, and you were in a lot of pain."

"I was?" There was a pause. "Yes, I was. Bob left me, didn't he? The b.a.s.t.a.r.d!"

"Are you still hurt?"

"Ah . . . no, I don't think so."

"What was the matter?"

"He'd made me have an abortion. He gets me pregnant, then takes me to some fly-by-night a.s.shole friend of his who claims to be a nurse and can do it, no cost. No cost? Too good to be true, I tell Bob. He says the guy owes him for something or other. So I figure, I don't want a kid anyway, and the guy's got a medical degree. Or nursing degree. Whatever."

"Oh."

"But then I start cramping, and bleeding like crazy. He brings me here to this s.h.i.+t-bag motel 'cause he doesn't want to take me home to my place, or to my mom's, or, Lord forbid, to his mom's, 'cause you know f.u.c.kin' moms, how they can get."

"I suppose."

"I tell him, you took me to some butcher to save a hundred bucks? He says it'll be OK. He says he'll go get some real help. Gives me his cell phone. Why didn't he call 911? I'll tell you why, 'cause he wanted to skip town and leave me alone to ..."

There was a long, dry silence.

"To what?" asked Charity.

"Like he wanted to skip town and leave me to die or something."

"I'm so sorry, Julie."

"What are you doing in that closet anyway?"

"I'm not sure."

"What's your last name?"

"Via."

"I don't know no Vias in Flinton."

"I'm not from Flinton."

"Out-of-towner, huh? In for a one-night stand? Get dumped by your man, too?"

Dumped by my man? I guess that's what happened. Knocked down by his truck and left here until he decides to come back.

Charity hesitated, then, "I'm from Gloryville."

Julie laughed abruptly. "You're kiddin' me, right? That creepy place with all the polygamist fundamentalists? Where the women wear those prairie dresses and puff their hair up high?"

"Yes."

"You running from there? Running away?"

"I was . . ." Fawn! Wait! What happened to Fawn? "I was running from there, yes! They were after me, Rufus and the Prophet!" Her words picked up speed as she remembered the truck on the dark road, the impact of the metal on her shoulders, landing in the sand. "Julie, you have to get me out of here. If they come back they'll take me home. I can't go home! Oh, my G.o.d, I think they killed Fawn!"

"What? Who's Fawn?"

"Get me out, please!"

"I can't! The doork.n.o.b won't turn. I can't seem to get it with my fingers."

"Try again!"

"I can't!"

"They could be back any minute!"

"I can't! I can't! I can't!"

"Shhh!" Charity held up her hand to silence Julie, as if the other girl could see her.

"Shhh, what?"

"Listen. Do you hear that? Scratching? And somebody crying? Really soft, though, but don't you hear it?"

"Where?"

"I'm not sure. It's not in here. Maybe out where you are?"

"I don't think so."

"Just listen."

"I am listening! d.a.m.n, but I'm sick of people telling me what to do!"

"Sorry."

Then Julie said, "Yeah, I do hear it. Maybe it's in the other room, you think? Or the TV?"

"I've heard it before. It's the same sound over and over."

"Maybe somebody's renting the same p.o.r.n film. Some of that S and M s.h.i.+t."

"What's that? S and M?"

"Never mind. You're from Gloryville, so how would you even know? Wait. Your name's Charity?"

"Yes."

"That's funny."

"Why?"

"Did you know that other Charity? The one who ran away from Gloryville, I dunno, six years ago?"

Charity frowned and put her hand to her mouth. "Who was that? I don't remember. There are a couple of Charities in Gloryville."

"Girl about fourteen . . . fifteen. It was in the news. Found her . . . s.h.i.+t, it was in this same motel. In a closet. She was dead, all banged up. Said it looked like she'd been hit by a car or something."

"No ..."

"Never found out who did it, I don't think. Went out to that Gloryville, talked to some folks. Seems she ran off. Musta gotten hooked up with some bad sorts who ran her down then hid her."

"No."

"One of the cops said she looked like she was real pretty once, in that yellow dress and all that brown hair and a little squashed Bible in her pocket. He even cried a bit on the TV. Now for a cop to cry, who's gonna forget that?"

No.

"I think the people in Gloryville said another girl ran off with her, but they never did find her. You remember the Charity I'm talking about?"