Page 56 of Into the Dark, We Go
She shot me a glare, but her expression quickly crumpled, like a child on the verge of tears.
"This is so disgusting," she said, still flicking her fingers as if trying to rid them of whatever she’d touched.
"Come on, let’s wash it," I said, leading her to the bathroom and turning on the faucet.
The bathroom was as filthy as the rest of the house. Soap scum and grime encrusted the sink, and cigarette butts littered the floor. The air reeked of mold and stagnation. The toilet appeared not to have been cleaned in months. Or years. Besideit, a dusty beer can stood abandoned next to a grimy bottle of Clorox as if the two were keeping each other company. The bathtub sat hidden behind a mildewed, tattered curtain.
There was no towel in sight, only a filthy rug shoved behind the heater. June shook the water off her hands and wiped them on her jeans. I turned off the faucet.
Only then did we notice the dripping. A slow, steady rhythm, tapping on unseen water.
June and I exchanged glances. I exhaled, stretched out my arm, and yanked the curtain aside.
In the half-second it took to do so, gruesome images flashed through my mind—Duane, bloated and lifeless.
But the tub was empty. Just an inch of stagnant, yellowish water and a few soggy cigarette butts. I dragged out an uneven breath.
June’s shoulders relaxed. "Can we go now?"
We made our way back through the kitchen, and I caught sight of something in passing. I turned the light toward the shelf lined with rows of mismatched jars.
One stood out. A red plastic container of instant coffee, nestled among the condiments and canned soups.
Lucas had used the same kind to stash his lucky nicknacks. He once confided that since childhood, it had been his go-to hiding spot for "treasures."
I stepped closer, pulled the jar from the shelf, and twisted the lid off. No coffee, just old paper and photographs.
June peered over my shoulder. "Jeez, is it more porn?"
"I don’t think so," I said, spreading the contents across the table. Photos, printouts with MISSING stamped on them. A few newspaper clippings about disappearances. A cold knot twisted in my stomach.
June picked up a picture. "What’s this?"
"I’m not sure." I flipped one over. October 12, 1986. June turned to another. October 1, 1998.
"They all have dates," she whispered.
The faces, some warped by grainy photocopies, and the stark lettering flickered before my eyes: ‘MISSING’, ‘HAVE YOU SEEN THIS PERSON?’, ‘LAST SEEN WEARING...’.
There were so many.
"Grab them," I said, already stacking the papers in my arms. "And let’s get out of here."
We switched off the lights and retraced our steps through the side door in the kitchen. Outside, the darkness had deepened, but a dim hue from the backyard light cast long shadows over the garage.
June suddenly halted. "The garage door is open."
The old overhead door was shut, but the side door hung ajar. There could have been plenty of reasons for that, but something about it felt wrong. A slow, creeping sense of finality settled in my bones.
"Stay here," I instructed June, and for once, she obliged.
I lifted my phone, using the flashlight to cut through the gloom. There were parts of an old car with no hood, gas cans and tools. I moved along the side, scanning the cluttered shelves. Then, out of nowhere, something brushed my shoulder. I shrieked, spinning around, the beam of light darting like a rabbit. An old bike dangled from the ceiling. I must have bumped into it.
"I think there’s a light switch," June called from the doorway.
A second later, the garage flooded with light.
The first thing I saw was the wall smeared with splashes of red. Then, my gaze dropped to the ground. The pistol. The same one Duane had threatened us with.
