Page 67 of Snow Creek

“Regina? Amy?”

I try the knob and this time it’s unlocked. Something is wrong. I can feel it. I draw my gun from my side holster and swing the door open. I’m assaulted by the odor coming at me. The smell is worse than the cat lady’s house down the road. The air is a sweet and heavy mask, an overdose of Febreze and balsam fir scented candles. I wince. Underneath the scent is the unmistakable acrid odor of death.

Damn, I’m too late, I think, as I try to breathe from my mouth.

Merritt has been here.

I move methodically through the front room. Its tidy collection of furnishings and photos of whom based on the old DMV photos I presume to be Amy and Regina are undisturbed: Regina is sturdy and quiet pretty; Amy, the smaller, had a sweet smile and beautiful hair. Next, I sweep the kitchen. Everything is put away. The sink sparkles. A toy goat activated by the sun bobs its head up and down. I look toward the hall.

My gun is a divining rod in search of evil.

“Anyone home?” I ask. “This is the Jefferson County Sheriff. We need to talk to you.”

No response.

I make my way down the narrow, dark hall and nudge the only door open. The stench comes at me in full force. I continue to breathe through my mouth.

It doesn’t help.

I can taste something dead.

The scene comes at me in pieces, my mind trying to pull what I’m seeing together in some kind of semblance of reality.

Curtains drawn.

A sliver of sunlight leads to the bed.

A battery-operated candle flickers on the nightstand.

Two figures are on the bed, side by side; the beam of light from the window illuminates a hand. It’s small. A woman’s? A child’s?

“Regina? Amy?” I say, reaching behind me to flick on the lights, but my fingers can’t find a switch anywhere. Gun still out, I reach for the curtain and yank it open.

I gasp and suck in the foul air and nearly fall to my knees.

I see a series of pulleys and wires coming from the ceiling.

What is this? What did he do to them?

My hip scrapes a wire and the woman farthest from me moves. I lose my breath immediately, and at the same time I feel a tinge of relief.

“Are you okay?” I ask. My voice is a whisper.

Her face is hidden.

The other woman, the larger of the two, stares at me with a single eye.

A dead, lifeless one. My gun feels heavy. I nearly drop it on the floor as I steady myself.

I lean down, prod her gently. She’s gone. I do the same with the other, moving the white sheet that covers most of her.

I’ve found Amy. Or what used to be her. She’s desiccated and shiny, like a preserved mummy in a curiosity shop. Her hair is a wig. In fact, I notice several now on the dresser. Her limbs, neck and arms are strapped with fabric that holds industrial-sized cup hooks. The lines that run from her body to the ceiling are a means to move her.

Amy’s body is a puppet.

A doll.

The grotesqueness of the scene overtakes me. No matter what I’ve seen or done has never been this horrific.

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