4. Rae

The crescent moonhangs over the parking lot, an eyeless mouth grinning down at the mall. Even though there's no one around at one a.m., I still park my car under a tree in the far corner of the lot. There may be after-hours security, and I don't want to draw attention right now.

I clutch my purse to my chest and trudge toward the Galloway House. It stretches into the night sky, a giant growing in strength.

The asphalt turns to dirt. Eventually, I'm right in front of the house.

I picture my father hanging his wife from the rafters, blood dripping down her legs.

I imagine my father holding the pistol to his own head.

Did he think about his choice to kill her? Or did he surrender to a fit of rage, like they say he did? Maybe the fury took hold of him, possessing him so completely that his mind went blank, and when he saw what he had done, he couldn't deal with the grief. Is that why he killed himself?

Or does it have to do with me?

No… Michael Hall never knew I existed. And besides, the whole crime is too convenient. The rumor was that there weren't enough resources to give it a thorough investigation, but I still think the cops were too quick to call it "solved." And if they didn't investigate back then, I may as well try to now.

My footsteps crunch on the desert sand. I raise my eyes, taking in the height of the Galloway House, sucking in the scent of metal and brittle wood. I meditate on my mother's words: Your choices have consequences.

Every part of our lives is a result, a consequence. I'm proof of that.

I turn on my phone's flashlight, then start recording a video. I open the front door. The hinges open smoothly. I furrow my brow. Given the state of the house, I would've thought that entering would've taken more effort.

I keep the camera aimed in front of me.

Inside, the house opens to an entryway. To the right, stairs lead up to the second floor. And to the left of the front door, the living room contains an old floral couch with a chunk of the back cushion ripped out. There's a clear hallway from the front door to the kitchen in the back, with a section of concave wall, as if the house tried to decompose, but the desert heat wouldn't let it.

I inch toward the back of the house. Yellow laminate with white designs stretch across the kitchen, slightly more modern than I expected; perhaps the laminate is an upgrade from when my father and his wife lived in the house. A broken window sits above the sink. I twist the faucet handle. It stays dry.

But there is a back door.

I focus the phone's lens on the back door, open it, then let it slam shut behind me.

My eyes catch on a boulder. The gray stone is about waist high with a brown, almost black stain on top of it. The executioner's block.

I don't know much about the first family—the Galloways—who lived here, but I know that they also tragically died in a murder-suicide. Images of the mother fill my mind—bent over the boulder, the father with a hatchet in his hand, her decapitated head rolling over the desert sand.

I zoom in on the camera app, focusing on the brown-black stain on the stone. It's probably not blood, but there's something exciting about knowing that it could be the only evidence left of the Galloway mother, an evilness still lingering in this place…

Chills run down my back. Something is here. A presence watching me.

I swing around, using the phone's light to see.

The peeling paint. The boulder. The back door.

I'm alone.

I pause the recording and turn off the light, scowling at myself for being so nervous. It's just an old house and me. There's nothing to worry about.

Still, Ned's reference to the architect's warning surfaces in my brain. She was right; there are bad vibes around this place, an urge that sinks into your skin and festers inside, burrowing down until there's no way to dig it out.

I should leave.

But not yet.

I slip back inside and take a deep breath. It's not like it's any safer inside of the house, but at least I'm not exposed.

A door to the side of the kitchen catches my eye. Scratched blond-colored wood, as if someone struggled to move something through the doorway.

I open it.

Stairs lead down to a pitch-black basement.

A man's sniffle—almost like a broken horn—echoes through the air.

My heart races. There's someone down there.

But I have the advantage: they don't know I'm here.

It's probably someone sleeping. Someone without a home. Someone who needs shelter. Nothing to worry about.

But I can't let it go. I have to see. The ghosts of the past—of my past—are calling me, dragging me down to the depths of the house. I hit the record button on my phone, though I leave the flashlight off this time; I don't want the person to see me. I cross my fingers that with enough editing, I can get a decent image.

My feet descend those stairs at a snail's pace.

Consequences,my mother's voice repeats. Your choices have consequences.

The stairs creak. I stiffen in place.

"Is someone there?" a man croaks. "Please! Help us!"

Help with what?

Outside, the faint chirp of desert insects dissipates, replaced by a panting breath. A person filled with fear. And the languid, easy breathing of another that I can just make out.

What are they doing down there?

The rhythmic beat of skin against skin begins. A moan. A heavy object slung into another. More skin beating together like a tarp flapping in the wind.

Are they having sex?

I squint my eyes. I can't see anything. My eyes haven't adjusted yet. The more I listen, the more positive I am that it has to be people having sex, or at the very least, a man masturbating.

Why did he ask for help though?

I should leave. This has nothing to do with my father and everything to do with the fact that an abandoned house is being used by random people. Those people may be dangerous.

But sex leads to distraction, and having footage gives you power.

I crouch down, squinting, trying to get my eyes to adjust.

Finally, I see it.

The outline of three people. A man tied to a support beam. A woman on her hands and knees, and a man fucking her from behind, his profile distorted, almost like he has a mask clinging to his face.

A tingling sensation starts in my chest, then spreads to my limbs. I flex my fingers, then carefully creep down a few more steps into the darkness. The masked man is covered in black fabric. The material seems almost glued to him, making him more like a toy action figure than a human being. An open zipper frames his mouth. The metal elements of the zipper gleam like fangs.

His masked face turns in my direction. I freeze in the shadows of the stairs, not daring to breathe until he turns back to the woman before him.

He rips a knife from his back pocket and stabs the woman's side. She grunts before going limp, and the man tied in front of her wails, each sob squawking out of him like an angry bird.

My jaw drops. Each sense heightens, everything at its peak. My mouth is chalky. My pulse races in my temples. I clench and unclench my free hand, as if I can summon a knife to protect myself. What should I do?

I'm a witness to another murder in this house.

This masked man could kill me too.

If I had a weapon, I could kill him.

I should call for help.

I should do something.

I should run.

I need to leave.

I can't leave. I should?—

"Please. Just…" the bound man begs. "Just kill me."

The phone keeps recording in the darkness. My body tightens like it's bracing for a tornado to sweep me away. I'm stuck.

Terror runs cold in my chest.

I don't want to move.

I can't.

"Beg me," the masked man says, his voice low and rough.

"P-p-please," the man sobs. "Kill me. Please."

The masked man runs a gloved hand over his groin, then he stabs the man's stomach, pulling the knife down, his intestines slopping to the ground like spilled chili.

I hold my breath. I'm transfixed by the masked man. The dark clothes. The thump of his heavy combat boots. Even the mask which must have sheer material covering his eyes.

The masked man faces me. Even though I can't see his eyes, I know he's watching me. It's like he knows I've been here this entire time. Like he killed these people just to show me he could. To warn me that I'm next.

I blink rapidly, but it doesn't feel real. Things like this don't happen. But choices always have consequences. Sometimes, there are twisted results. Like choosing to be in an abandoned house after midnight, then watching a masked man murder two people.

And he's about to take your life too,my brain screams.

I race back up the stairs and shove my phone into my purse. The masked man takes four giant steps, his boots smashing into the floor. I reach the hallway, but he shoves me back, pinning me to the wall.

The bloody knife presses into my neck, my skin electric at the pinch of the blade. The wallpaper is slick and sticky on my cheek. My fingers are numb. The pressure of his body keeps me in place.

Consequences.Like getting killed when you could have kept your distance and lived.

"Tell me," the masked man says, his deep, gravelly voice seeping into my ears. "Did you think I didn't know you were there?"

Tears fill my eyes. It's not sorrow or anger or terror, or even pain, but an overwhelming sensation that I can't control. I don't know how to comprehend this. It doesn't feel real.

It can't be.

He leans his elbow against my shoulder blades, keeping me in place. Then he wraps his arm around my waist. His body is so warm it's like being steeped inside of a hot spring.

"I bet you thought you'd get away with it." He breathes against my neck. "You didn't think I'd see you. Waving your phone like it's some kind of shield. A phone can't protect you from murder, little girl."

"No," I whisper. "No?—"

He chuckles, then flings me around violently. Holding my neck with one hand, the other hand plants the knife against my stomach, ready to disembowel me like the man in the basement.

My heart swells against my rib cage. Do something! my brain demands.

I shout: "I called the police!"

Everything falls silent. The cicadas and desert insects hold their breaths. The wind is stale. I can't hear a thing.

He chuckles again, and my world shatters.

"You didn't," he murmurs. "You were too busy watching me. Face it: you get off on violence, you sick little freak."

A boiling sensation buzzes inside of me, widening my blood vessels, my cheeks hot with an emotion I can't quite place. I can't see his expression, but when I look up at those black mesh screens covering his eyes, I can tell he's staring down at me.

"I don't," I whisper. "I don't. I swear I?—"

He lowers the knife, pressing it into my inner thigh until I'm forced to widen my stance to avoid the pain. Then his other gloved hand slips into my skirt and stockings.

His leather fingertips slide along my slit, my pussy parting easily for him. My face broils. A gasp escapes my throat.

He lifts his finger, his glove glistening in the dim light. He rubs the arousal on my face, streaking me with my own wetness. My body throbs.

"You're sopping wet," he says. "Greedy little freak."

A chill runs through me.

Why is my body doing this?

I clench my jaw. I'm not turned on by this. This is nature's reaction to stress. A primal coping mechanism. Don't think. Just do. Give the predator sex. This is normal. This is?—

This is?—

I don't know what the fuck this is, but arousal like this is insane. He's a murderer. And I'm just?—

He lets go of my neck. The lack of pressure deflates me, my body smaller than before.

Am I disappointed that he's not touching me anymore?

The masked man towers over me. A pillar. A grand beast. A god waiting to see what his subject does. What I do next.

I can't move.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

"I'll be watching you, little girl," he says.

Watching you,my brain repeats.

Suddenly, I'm back in my body, present in my own skin, aware that I'm in an abandoned house with my legs spread, my underwear and skirt disheveled, with two corpses in the basement, and a masked murderer standing in front of me.

I run.

I run so fast that my sides cramp. And once I'm in my car, I drive. I drive so recklessly that I pass my new apartment. I don't care. I don't stop. I can't. If I do, that murderer will be right behind me with those meshed eyes, and I don't know what I'll do.

Twenty minutes pass.

Eventually, my heart rate slows. I pull over on the side of the highway and get out of the car. In the distance, Las Vegas glows like a giant sun coming over the horizon, and in the other direction, Pahrump is fuzzy, but there. My new home is waiting for me to return.

The masked man is there, waiting for me too.

I suck in the night air, grounding myself. The shadows of cacti. Sand and small rocks under my feet. Rocky hills. The glow of city lights. Millions of stars.

I'm alone.

I lean against my car, then open my phone. It's still recording. I end the recording, then click to the dial pad.

I should call the cops.

Two people died, and I saw it happen. I didn't see the murderer's face, but the police will be able to do something with the video on my phone. I could even try to edit it before I give it to them.

What if the police can hear the murderer say that I'm wet?

I bite my lip, then look back at the dim lights of Pahrump. My arousal doesn't matter. What matters is putting a murderer behind bars so that it doesn't happen again. It's the right thing to do.

I open the video file of the house, scrubbing through the footage until the lens focuses on the dark basement stairs. I turn up the volume.

It's static.

Would the cops want something like this? Or would they laugh in my face?

Should I go back and get pictures of the bodies?

"I'm going to call the cops," I say out loud.

But I can't make my fingers move.

It's another choice. Another choice where I'm letting my mother and society's righteousness dictate what I'm supposed to do when there's a desire inside of me that wants more.

I play with the limited editing software until the footage turns into scraggly figures, like shadows shimmering on a bank of water. That's all the murderer is right now: a shadow.

What can I get out of this footage? Because right now, I've got nothing.