Ultimate Supernatural Horror Box Set

FOUR DAYS LATER

Cleveland , Ohio

Mal

Mallory Dieter knew by his wife’s breathing that she was also awake.

He thought about reaching for her, holding her close, but she didn’t like being touched while trying to sleep. It startled her, even made her yell sometimes. At three in the morning, even a whisper from Mal could make Deb jump.

Mal understood this. Intimately.

Because he felt exactly the same way.

The bed was the best money could buy. The kind where each side could be adjusted for maximum comfort. No bedframe, so nothing could hide under it. Expensive pillows, some with goose down, some with memory foam. Sheets with a 400 thread count. A ceiling fan that provided a gentle breeze, and calming white noise.

But all that wasn’t nearly enough.

Mal shifted, slowly so he didn’t scare her, letting Deb know they were both in the same boat.

“Need another Xanax?” Deb whispered. “I’ll be up. I can watch you.”

Often the only way either got to sleep was when one offered to watch over the other.

“Gotta work early. But you can take one, and I’ll watch you.”

Deb turned, rolling against him, the weight of her body both reassuring and confining. She trusted him enough to hook her thigh over him—a thigh missing the calf below the knee. Years ago, a fall while mountain climbing had taken Deb’s legs.

But that wasn’t the fear that kept her awake.

Mal knew it was something far worse.

A fear he also shared.

The Rushmore Inn.

He resisted her touch, wanting to push her away, hating himself for the feeling. During the daytime, he couldn’t get enough of touching her, holding her, caressing her.

But nights were different. At night he didn’t want to be touched, held, or otherwise confined. He couldn’t even use heavy blankets. It made him feel trapped, helpless. As if he were still tied to that table and…

Mal shuddered.

Nights were a bitch.

“You up for something else?” Deb asked, trailing her fingernails down his belly, to his boxer shorts. Mal closed his eyes, tried to live in the moment, tried to push away the past. But the only part of him the alprazolam seemed to relax was the part Deb was rubbing.

“Sorry, hon. The pill.”

Deb pulled her hand back.

“I could do you,” he said, reaching for her. “Maybe my body will get the hint.”

Mal moved his left hand down, stroked her. Deb didn’t respond.

“Damn Xanax,” Deb breathed. “Turns us into a couple of eunuchs.”

Mal stopped his efforts. Stared at the ceiling fan.

He sighed. “Our lives would be perfect if we didn’t have to sleep.”

“I hear someone is working on a pill for that.”

“I’m sick of pills, but sign me up for that one.”

He thought about having the nightlight discussion again. Mal found it damn near impossible to fall asleep with the four nightlights Deb had in the bedroom. There were practically bright enough to read a book by.

The problem was Deb had panic attacks in the dark.

Or maybe that was just a way to blame Deb for his insomnia, because Mal hated the dark, too.

“We can get up,” Deb said. “Play some rummy.”

They’d done that the previous two nights. But Mal knew Deb was as exhausted as he was. And with exhaustion came crankiness, frustration, misery. Yesterday, they’d both gone to separate parts of the house because of some stupid fight over how to best shuffle cards.

“We need sleep, hon. You take another pill. At least one of us should get some rest.”

“It’s not rest with the pills. It’s more like a coma. I hate them.”

“So do I. But…”

Mal didn’t need to finish the sentence. They both knew how it ended.

But I hate the nightmares more.

They’d been to doctors. Specialists. Shrinks. Mal knew his wife shared his condition.

PTSD. Posttraumatic stress disorder.

The newest research revealed brain chemistry actually changed in response to traumatic experience. And at the Rushmore Inn, Deb and Mal survived the most traumatic experience imaginable.

“We got a little sleep on Saturday,” Deb said.

Mal grunted mmm-hmm. He didn’t mention that during one of her night terrors, Deb’s moans and cries kept waking him up, even though he’d taken several pills because of the weekend off.

“Maybe we’re doing this wrong,” Mal said. “Maybe we need to take speed instead.”

His wife laughed, breaking some of the tension. “Speed?”

“Or some coke. Instead of sleeping, we party all night.”

“I tried speed once when I was training, to boost endurance. I finished a marathon, then cleaned the house top to bottom. It was awful.”

Mal smiled. “Awful? We should both take some, clean out that basement.”

“Do you even know where to get amphetamines?”

“I work for a newspaper. We newsies know all the lowlifes.”

“So we should embrace our insomnia. That’s your solution.”

“It isn’t a solution, hon. Just a silly idea.”

Deb didn’t respond right away. And when she did, her voice was so sad it made Mal ache.

“There are no solutions.”

They laid there, in silence, Mal unable to come up with a solution. Deb was correct. They were broken, both their bodies and their minds, and there didn’t seem any way to fix them.

That’s when someone pounded on the door.

The sound paralyzed Mal, adrenaline ripping through his body making his heart seem ready to pop. But his arms and legs locked as surely as if they’d been bound there.

He couldn’t move.

Couldn’t breathe.

After the initial startle, his mind went haywire with possibilities. Who would be at the door at 3am? Had those terrible people from the Rushmore Inn finally found him? Had they come to finish the job?

Unable to suck in any air, unable to turn his head, Mal’s eyes flicked over to Deb and saw she was similarly frightened stiff.

A second ticked by.

Another.

I’ve got to get up. I’ve got to—

The pounding sound came again, even louder, a white hot spike of adrenaline snapping Mal out of his catatonia. He immediately jerked upright in bed, reaching for his nightstand, for the 9mm inside the drawer. But in his fear and haste he reached with the wrong hand, the one missing above the wrist. He quickly switched, pulling out the gun, as Deb clambered for her artificial legs, propped next to the wall.

She squeaked out, “Do you think it’s—”

“Shh.”

Holding his breath, Mal strained to hear more sounds. He wondered, fleetingly, if this was one of his frequent nightmares. But they always revolved around him being strapped to the table, watching those horrid videos. He was always at the Rushmore in his bad dreams. He’d never had a nightmare that took place in his house.

This wasn’t a dream.

This was really happening.

He quickly switched his thoughts to other, safer possibilities. A drunk neighbor, mistaking their house for his. Local teenagers, pranking people by knocking on the door then running away. A relative, maybe his brother from Florida, dropping by unannounced. Police, coming over to tell Mal he’d left the headlights on in the car parked in the driveway.

Anything other than them…

Deb was trembling so badly she couldn’t get her legs on.

“Mal… help me…”

But for Mal to help, he had to drop the 9mm—he only had one hand. And he didn’t think he’d be able to let go of it, even if he tried.

“Mal…”

“Deb, I…”

Then the phone rang.

Deb screamed at the sound, and Mal felt his bladder clench. He looked at the gun, clutched in his trembling fist.

If it is them, I know what to do.

Deb first. One in the temple while she’s looking away.

Then me.

Because there is no way in hell they’re taking us back there.