I watched her suffer, perhaps more than I should’ve, but I knew interfering would hurt my niece’s development. She needed to make mistakes and face the consequences of her actions. If my work bears fruit, even my most stubborn children will appreciate the decision Adelaide made all those years ago. The mangle must be stopped no matter the cost.
James slammed the door on his police cruiser while searching his pockets for a match. He cursed, spinning around and looking through the car window to find them sitting in the ashtray. He tried the door again, but the handle clicked and wouldn’t budge. The damn thing was so old the locking mechanism jammed.
“What’s wrong?” his partner, John, asked, slapping him across the shoulders. “Forget your trousers or something?”
The man was coarse and pudgy, with greasy black hair and brown eyes. His tie wasn’t done properly, his shoes were dirty, his trousers wrinkled, and he was sweating through his shirt. At least his badge was shiny. It was about the only thing John cared about, the perfect cop for where the worst offenses came from the Meeks boys who painted street signs and lifted fireballs from the candy store on Fifth.
What James wouldn’t give for an actual case. This backwater town was where your career came to die.
“I left my matches in the damn car,” James said.
“Well, join me when you get them. I doubt this is anything special, anyway,” John said. “The boy probably just ran away from home and will be back with his tail between his legs.” He laughed, scratching his belly as he stepped away from the vehicle.
James shook his head, searching through his trousers until he found a fishhook and thread. He adjusted his black fedora, leaning against the car door, and threading the line through an opening in the driver’s side window. He spun the thread; the hook catching the lock. The door opened, and he snatched the matches from the ashtray before gently shutting the car, testing the handle to be sure the damn thing didn’t lock.
He sighed, drawing a cigarette, lighting the end, and tossing the used match by his feet. He exhaled, brushing away the smoke.
They got the call that morning about a case of missing persons. After months of dealing with Tommy’s sticky fingers and that sleazy peeping Tom over on Concord, he couldn’t help but feel the excitement. A kidnapping was practically unthinkable in this sleepy little town. John was correct. The boy would probably come home before dinner with his belly growling. The kids here were like that. Getting into fights with their parents and storming off until it blew over. How many kids did they pry kicking and screaming from the old sewer by the creek? They’d probably catch him there gumming a fat wad of Charleston Chew. But, on the slim chance that it turned out to be real…
James sighed, flicking his still glowing cigarette into the lawn and stamping it out.
He had to remind himself that this was somebody’s son.
The neighborhood wasn’t much different from his, with white picket fences and two-story suburban homes. That’s how they built things these days. Come up with one design and just start stamping. As much money as the government had poured into Drywood for its coal, you’d think they’d be more original with the housing. It was just more proof that it was the coal they cared about, not the people. At least they could pick the colors. Solid, bold, blue, or red.
He sniffed, stepping up and onto the front porch of the Boyd household. There was glass in the lawn from the second-story window, and a squirrel missing its tail and two of its front toes stared at him from the railing.
Strange, he’d seen a few animals in the neighborhood missing pieces and parts. A pigeon without tail feathers, a cat without claws, spiders, crickets, and frogs missing fangs, legs, and toes.
Maybe it was something in the water.
James entered the house, wiping his feet on the front mat, removing his polished black shoes, and hanging his fedora on the entryway hooks. He adjusted his tie, the wood floor creaking beneath his toes as he ran his fingers through his messy brown hair.
The kitchen and the living room were to the left and right of the entryway, with a stairwell that circled the kitchen up to the second floor.
“Did you say anything recently that might have upset him?” he heard John ask from the kitchen.
“No, no, nothing like that. I’m telling you… The way my boy was screaming.” There was another voice, masculine, probably the father.
James stepped into the living room where a woman sat, her eyes hollow, her brown hair disheveled, and her hands shaking. She was in her late thirties wearing a blue sleeveless summer gown with no belt, socks, or shoes. She’d just thrown on whatever from the closet, only tending to the basics.
“Ma’am.” James nodded to her, offering his hand. “Travis James Clark with the Drywood police department.”
The woman, Mary Boyd, took his hand, but there was no strength behind it. “Thank you for coming, officer,” she said, so softly he had to lean in to hear her.
Behind the chair and close to the living room radio, a little girl with dark brown hair and bright saucer-like eyes played on the floor. When she noticed him, she hid by the chair, peeking around the corner. She must’ve been seven and cute as a button.
“Hello,” James said. He smiled at her, and she ducked behind the chair. “Ma’am, do you mind if I ask you a couple of questions about the incident?” He turned back, pulling out a small black notebook with a pencil worn down to the nub.
“We told you everything over the phone,” she said, wiping her eyes.
“Yes, but please, humor me.”
It was all just procedure. A missing boy, a murdered wife, a raped sister, notes on an empty canvas. That was the first thing they taught in the big city. Never make it personal. Investigators with heavy hearts didn’t last long, so murder weapons became footnotes and bloody fingerprints, the flourished penmanship of a steady secretary hand.
Mary looked at him with hollow eyes and he felt a pit in his stomach, a strange itch along the back of his neck. A spark of excitement warmed him.
“My husband and I woke when we heard our daughter screaming,” she began. “Robert was shut in the bathroom. We heard struggling inside and tried to open the door, but it was locked. That’s when the mirror and the window broke. My husband kicked the door down, but no one was there.” Her eyes welled up with tears and her sentences broke. “W-we ran outside and… and…” Mary lost herself, covering her face with her hands. “Oh, my boy… Who took my boy!”
James rubbed his nose, looking over his shoulder towards the kitchen. “I know this is difficult, ma’am,” he said, offering her a napkin from his shirt pocket. “But any details will help with our investigation.”
“Thank you.” Mary wiped her eyes. “We searched the neighborhood. The window was broken, and it was the only way out of the bathroom, so we assumed he was taken from there.”
“And you didn’t find any traces? No shoes, maybe, a pair of glasses?”
“No, nothing.”
James jotted down a few notes. “You said your daughter woke you? Do you mind if I ask her what she saw?”
“Patty,” Mary said, and the little girl poked her head out from behind the chair. “This nice man needs to ask you some questions.”
She took her mother’s hand, staring at her feet, refusing to look James in the eye.
“Hello, Patricia, your name is Patricia, right?”
She nodded.
“Do you mind telling me what happened that night?”
“I told him not to,” Patty said, still looking at her toes.
“You told who not to?”
“Rob, I told him not to go, but he wouldn’t listen to me.”
“You told him not to go where?”
“To the bathroom. He wouldn’t believe me.” She cried, burying her face in her mother’s skirt. “Mommy, I’m sorry. I fed it and it wanted more. It wanted Rob!”
“Oh, Patricia…” Mary lifted the girl into her lap.
“Who wanted Rob, Patty?” James asked.
“The thing in the sink!”
“The sink?” He looked at Mary, who was shaking her head.
“She believes there’s a monster living in the bathroom,” Mary said. She wiped Patty’s face with the napkin. “We’ve tried to tell her it’s just her imagination—”
“No!” Patty shouted. “Mrs. Sink is real! She’s hungry, and she wanted Rob!” Patty stuttered, choking on her words as a salty river ran down her cheeks, her eyes red and her hands shaking.
Whatever happened here really shook her up.
“That must’ve been very frightening. You’re a brave girl, Patty,” he said, closing his notebook and stowing his pencil. “Would you mind if I looked at the bathroom, ma’am?”
Mary shook her head, holding Patty’s head against her chest, who was still in tears. “It’s the first door on the right just up the stairs by the bedrooms.”
James left the living room, back towards the entryway, and up the stairs around the kitchen. He placed his hands against the wall as he ascended, noting tears in the flower-patterned wallpaper and scuffs on the carpet floor. He peeked inside the bedroom closest to the bathroom.
They split the room, a boy’s posters and model cars on one half and a girl’s doll collection and bright pink nightlight on the other. This was hardly the atmosphere or living space of a troubled family.
“What do you think?” John asked, coming up behind him from the stairs.
“I think,” James said. “That I’m going to need another cigarette.”
John chuckled, scratching his belly and loosening his belt.
“What did you learn from the father?”
“Nothing useful. Robert’s a good kid and his dad got him a job at the mines, which kept him out of trouble.”
“Out of trouble, you say.” James knelt by the bed and lifted the mattress, an old Playboy magazine with torn pages falling onto the floor. “Well, he’s a typical boy, that’s for certain,” he said, leafing through the pages of scantily clad swimsuit models.
“Christ’s sake, James. You can’t tell me you didn’t own one of those when you were a kid.” John wiped his brow, sweat beading on his forehead. “The Boyd family is well respected in this town. Old Paul’s about to be made the foreman.”
“Any reason for the kid to run away? Signs of abuse?”
“No, he’s not that type of guy.”
“Gut feeling?”
“Gut feeling.”
James nodded, placing the magazine back under the mattress. “Well, let’s look at this bathroom.”
They stepped into the hallway, checking the door lying on its side—a foot-shaped impression punched in the center.
John whistled, touching the splintered doorframe where the hinges were knocked out. “Paul sure did a number on that,” he said.
James entered the bathroom, glass crunching under his feet. The toilet, tub, and sink were lime green, and the shower curtains had a checkerboard pattern. It reminded him of his mother’s house with that plush off-white toilet seat cover.
“Well, if we’re going with the kidnapping scenario.” John looked out the broken window and towards the ground. “They’d need to have brought a ladder or are the world’s greatest gymnasts.”
“Not possible,” James said. He picked up a piece of glass and turned it over in his hands. “Did you notice the glass?”
“Sure, it’s broken.”
James gave him an exhausted look.
John wrinkled his nose, going down on his knees and scratching his chin. “This is all from the mirror,” he said.
“Yes.” James stood, touching the window frame. “See how the wood is bent outward and how most of the glass from the window is lying on the lawn?”
“You’re saying the window was broken from inside the bathroom?”
“Somebody was trying to get out in a hurry.”
“Well, then we’re looking for a boy in crutches. A grown man couldn’t take that fall without breaking his neck.”
James nodded, reaching for the edges of the sink. “Something terrified that little girl,” he said, pulling the plug from the drain.
He ran the faucet, reddish-brown water pooling and draining slowly.
John hovered over his shoulder. “What the hell’s the sink got to do with this?” he asked.
James watched the last drop of water swirl down the sink, the drain making a gurgling noise as the rust-colored fluid vanished. “Something’s clogging the pipes.” He struck a match, looking down the drain with the fire near. He saw something red and milky-white, like a hard-boiled egg. “Do you see that?” he asked.
John leaned in. “Bleached hair, with some lipstick?” he said.
“Move.” James pushed him, removing the fishhook and thread from his trouser pocket, and running the line down the pipe. “I might be able to dislodge it.”
“Great, you should’ve been a plumber.”
James ignored him, licking his lips as he maneuvered the hook to snag the clog. He felt it catch and tugged to set the hook. Something gave when he pulled on the line, feeling the mass slide against the pipe. He brought it close to the drain and then pulled hard, ripping the clog out.
James flinched, dropping the hook, a bloody piece of tissue slapping against the floor, pus and mucus bubbling up from the now open drain.
“Fuck!” John shouted. He stepped back against the wall, his mouth hanging open.
On the floor, snagged in James’s hook, was a human eye.
