After She's Gone (West Coast 3)

Sssssss!

This time she whipped around. What? Dear God, what was that hissing noise? “Who’s there?” she called, then mentally corrected herself. Not who, but what? What creature lurked in the shadows? The skin on the back of her arms pimpled.

Did she see a pair of red eyes glowing in the corner, reflecting the fire’s dim light? Was it Lucifer himself, come to call? She started to cross herself again when, from the very corner where she knew the beast was lurking an intense light flashed, burning her eyes.

Blinded, Belva took a step backward, her calves colliding with the sharp edge of an end table, the light so intense she couldn’t see around its beam.

“You traitor,” a low voice accused and then she heard the weird hissing sound again.

Sssssss!

“Who are you?” Belva cried and backed up further. The table with its useless lamp toppled. Crash! Glass shattered.

“Who do you think I am?” The voice was low and raspy as if from a demon on the prowl.

“I—I don’t know—” But a dawning realization stole the words from her throat. Cold understanding crawled through her brain. “Oh . . . oh no . . .”

The spit dried in her mouth.

A horror as dark as midnight stole through her heart. The light nearly blinding her moved from Belva’s face to illuminate the visitor’s outstretched hand. Clutched in long fingers was a shiny piece of paper . . . no, that wasn’t quite right. It wasn’t a regular sheet of paper . . . no, something was wrong with it. As her eyes began to adjust Belva realized the paper was a cutout, a mask of a horridly disfigured woman. The subject’s face seemed as if it were running off her bones, her mouth twisted open into what appeared to be a silent scream of sheer terror.

Then she recognized the subject: Jenna Hughes.

Her stomach dropped through the floor.

She nearly stumbled and saw the nurse’s uniform stretched out on the couch. Her uniform. As if she were going to don that ancient dress and cape again. Oh, God.

All of her worst fears crystallized and she knew the monster hiding in the dark was, if not the prince of darkness, his wife. “No,” she whispered as the woman hiding in the corner advanced. Belva backed up, the soles of her shoes crunching on the broken glass, her heart pounding an erratic rhythm. “Please . . . please. Have mercy.”

“Mercy,” the raw voice repeated.

She heard a soft click.

Is that what it sounded like when a safety was snapped off, or a gun was ready to fire? She didn’t know, but didn’t wait to find out. Frantic, she whirled, propelled herself to the front door.

Blam!

A gunshot blasted through the tiny cabin.

Her body jerked forward.

Pain exploded in her back.

She screamed, fear and agony twisted together as she slammed into the door.

Arms splayed, she slithered down the wood panels and heard her own heart pounding in her ears.

“Mercy?” the harsh disembodied voice hissed as if from a distance. “I don’t think so.”

As blackness pulled at the threads of her consciousness, Belva heard the distinctive Sssss of the plasticized mask being rattled once more. This time the mask was close enough that she felt a cool breeze as it fanned her face.

Finally, her struggle was over.

She was dying. No one could save her. Though she was aware of something being placed over her head, she felt her soul slipping away. She made one last plea to God, one last prayer as atonement, one final request of the Holy Mother.

Hail Mary, full of grace . . .

CHAPTER 32