Missing Pieces, Part Three
This is the third excerpt of a four-part short horror series entitled Missing Pieces. Read part one here. Please be advised that this short story contains subject matter that might be disturbing to some readers. Content Warning: violence, body horror, mentions of assault
As I continued to examine the newly formed craters on my body, someone knocked on the door. Every inch of my skin froze while each hair stood on edge.
I snuck over to the entryway on the tips of my toes. It took every ounce of courage in me to gaze through the peephole for fear of what might gaze back at me.
A UPS driver unloaded boxes. She knocked again. I knew she needed my signature, but I didn’t know who she was working for or what she was tasked to do.
“I’m pretty sick,” I yelled, “Can you just leave them today?”
She moved the final box.
“I really can’t,” she said, crossing her arms in front of her body, “It’s against our policies.”
I opened the door as little as possible, squeezing my wrist through to sign. The rest of my body strained in concentration, waiting for her to pounce at any moment.
“I hope you feel better soon,” she said while turning on her heel and walking away.
Just a UPS employee. Just a regular person doing her job.
After hauling the half a dozen boxes inside, I opened the first one and began taking inventory. It was habitual, reflexive, to move into Vitamental mode, optimizing my time and energy.
My flesh ached. The spots vibrated, as if my body were calling for the missing pieces to come home.
I held a bottle of the infamous Hair, Skin, and Nails vitamins. I read the same ingredients I had read thousands of times before. Vitamin A. Vitamin C. Biotin. Flaxseed oil. Natural flavor. Fragrance.
What exactly constitutes a natural flavor or fragrance…
The holes across my skin jolted.
I moved across the room to my computer much too quickly. Every bone in my body ached. After scouring through pages of Google, I found the address for a local independent lab with no association to VC. I stuffed an envelope with as many bottles that would fit and addressed it accordingly.
Leaving my apartment felt like learning to walk all over again. I’m physically capable, yes, but uncertain of what might happen when I inevitably fall.
The nastiest feeling camped out in my gut, like after watching a horror movie and being absolutely convinced doors are closing on their own and someone’s watching from the closet.
I was certain I was being followed. I didn’t have any hard evidence, but this weight was tailing me and every time I turned around, a flash of black left my eyesight, just disappearing from view.
I was usually greeted with a symphony of “Who does your hair?” and “Your skin is radiant,” but today was different. The dynamics had shifted. I dared to question the Rainwaters and the community knew.
The usually pleasant and helpful post office employees were cold and distant. Word travels fast when a well-to-do family is accused of drugging and assaulting a no-name college student.
I had no idea how I would make ends meet, but I knew my time with the Rainwaters was over.
I ignored another call from John.
I texted Sarah to let her know she could mail my final check and any personal items I might have left.
She responded, “Please come talk to me. Charles is gone and the girls are at school. I fully understand you need to move on, but I want to make sure you’re ok.”
I agonized over how to move forward. Sarah made me feel seen. Up until the attack, I trusted her implicitly. There were many times I wondered if I held such an affinity for her because she represented the best version of myself.
“Be there soon,” I responded.
I would miss this drive the most. I never felt more at peace than with the music blaring, windows down, pine trees sailing by, creating a watercolor masterpiece in my peripheral vision. Joni Mitchell’s “A Case of You” accompanied my dreamy ponderings. Rain announced its impending arrival with the smell of swollen dirt.
What is that shared phenomenon of the fuzzy, warm feeling of being wrapped in safety and nostalgia while behind the wheel? What’s the word for the feeling of tranquility that nature inspires just before a complete and total downpour?
The Rainwater house was grey, all of its spark dissipated.
I rang the doorbell and picked at my thumb until it bled.
Charles answered. My breath left me.
“Come on in. Sarah will be down in a sec. I’ll grab some coffee for you.”
Charles opened the door wide for me to step through.
“Actually, I need to make a VC call anyway, so if you’ll just have Sarah meet me out here when she’s ready-”
“Nonsense. It’s going to start pouring down any second. Plus, we’ll need you to fill out some paperwork if you intend on leaving your VC position as well.”
I didn’t know what else to say, so I followed him in and pretended to make a call.
He came back in holding two mugs of coffee as I “wrapped up” my conversation. He watched me.
I ended the fake call as he motioned for me to accept the mug. Something’s wrong. I held it in my hands, grateful for the warm reminder I was, indeed, still alive and standing - that this interaction with Charles wasn’t another bizarre fever dream.
He sipped.
“Does Sarah need some help?” I started.
“I truly hope you’ll reconsider sticking it out with VC,” Charles said, his eyes not leaving mine for a second, “You’re a gifted sales associate.”
“I appreciate the offer, but I think it’s time for me to focus on finishing school.”
“Whatever your issues are between me and Sarah, I’m certain we can come to a mutual understanding.”
I heard the muffled thudding from above and suddenly felt the undeniable urge to run.
“I’m going to wait at my car. Sarah can meet me out there or not. At this point, I don’t care much about the money or my things.”
I turned to open the door. Charles reached around me and pushed it shut. His arms straddled my body. I turned to face him, reaching for the can of pepper spray in my bag.
“I thought you were smarter than this. Why would you ever walk back into this house?” He couldn’t keep from smiling, “You just make it so easy.”
Just as my fingers latched onto the small container, he covered my mouth and nose with a white cloth. Everything slowed down and swirled into blackness.
When I regained consciousness, my eyes were too heavy to open. I moved my toes, then my fingers. I didn’t feel the weight of chains or restraints.
I tried moving my throbbing head. Finally, my eyes fluttered open. To my right, the wall of rusting tools. To my left, the blue light of the computer monitor filled the tiny room.
I managed to sit up and confirm I was alone. Everything was still, quiet. My bag was missing, but all my clothes were intact except for my shoes and socks.
I eased off the table and knelt down beside the computer, my body still unbelievably sore. I clicked the mouse and a grid of nine rectangular boxes appeared. Video streams from cameras.
The Rainwater porch. Kitchen. Living room. Garage. Driveway.
My blood boiled as I continued scanning. The inside of my car. My entryway. My bedroom. My bathroom.
They’ve been watching me this entire time.
I clicked on the box displaying my bathroom. The video expanded and I could hear the incessant drip of my leaky shower.
They were listening too.
I moved around the room, assessing what I could work with. The tools ranged from clippers to clamps to saws. Below the tools, the floor was lined with mason jars. I picked one up and took it back over to the computer monitor to get a better view.
The jar was filled with flesh. I was careful not to drop it for fear of the smell. The holes in my own skin ached. Maybe the missing pieces were fermenting somewhere in these jars.
I suppressed the screams of anguish and pain bubbling up inside of me and channeled that energy into figuring out how to get the hell out of that torture chamber.
I climbed the small wooden stairs until I reached the latch and pushed as hard as humanly possible. It didn’t budge in the slightest.
I looked around and remembered the piece of attic floorboard jutting upward. I pushed the metal table into the corner and stood on top of it. It wasn’t nearly tall enough.
The tools were hanging from thick bolts mounted into the wall. My bare feet quaked in anticipation. I removed the right half of the tools and started climbing. It hurt like stepping on a million Legos at once, but it brought me that much closer to freedom.
I was able to reach the ceiling while clinging to the wall. I pushed on the broken, raised floorboard. It gave just a hair. It had been reinforced with nails from below. I reached for a hammer and began to peel away, slowly, quietly.
Eventually, I removed all the nails from the bottom and pushed the board with the hammer. It gave completely, leaving enough space to reach one arm through. I set the board aside, somewhere on the attic floor, and reached above to work on the next board.
After hours of tedious labor, I was able to squeeze my body through the open space, scraping myself to the point of bleeding along the way. I looked down upon the room from the exact angle I originally discovered it.
Then I heard footsteps. Soft at first. Someone pulled down the attic door. I leapt into action, placing the floorboards back except for one.
I moved quickly into a corner and squatted behind some boxes, carrying the last plank with me.
John entered the attic, carrying gloves and trash bags. He pulled the attic door shut again, the ladder collapsing into place. He hummed, moving heavy boxes off of the latch then paused, finally noticing the missing floorboard.
This was my one shot. John bent over, examining the missing floorboard. I ran towards him, ready to do what I had to do to survive.
I swung the board as hard as I could, making contact with his head, but John responded before I reached him, ready to fight. I swung again, but couldn’t connect with his body. He ducked easily and predicted my moves.
He was wearing me out on purpose, so I stopped, ten feet of space between us. He started to say something, but couldn’t, bowing his head in shame.
In a glimmer of pity from me, I dropped the board slightly, and he rushed me with the entire weight of his body landing on top of me.
I screamed, arms flailing, as he pinned me down with his knees and slapped me hard across the face. That momentarily silenced me. He looked like he was torn between kissing me or spitting on me.
So, I spat at him first.
He pushed his thumbs into my eyes. Searing pain filled my head. I reached for his fingers on my face and pulled them back in one swift, bold move.
He shifted enough of his weight in that moment that I could punch into his groin and roll out from under him.
As he reacted to the pain, I remembered his ankle, now free from a brace. I grabbed the loose floorboard and wailed on the injured leg until tears blended with the sweat on his face.
I ran towards the door as he crawled after me, screaming. I jumped onto the ladder, bracing myself for the fall. I tumbled onto the second floor hallway floor, jumped up, and pushed the attic door shut.
I scrambled down the stairs. All the lights were on. As I rounded the corner to cross the living room and run out the door, I noticed the twinkling outdoor lights. It was dark outside. What time was it?
Charles was making a speech to a small group of people. He gazed inside and we locked eyes. He raised his glass and smiled. I caught my reflection in the window. Haunting.
I ran to the front door and noticed the envelope I had addressed that morning sitting on the entryway table. Was it that morning?
I bolted through the door. My car was nowhere to be found, so I ran towards the woods, my bare feet going numb.
I ran until I couldn’t run then I walked until I could run some more. I stopped to pull thorns and twigs out of my feet, caked in dried blood and mud. Everything was still.
I felt confident I had put enough distance between myself and the Rainwater’s house that I could try to find the road.
I lurked in the bushes waiting for headlights. A motorcycle passed. Then a semi. Finally a silver mini van rolled by. I rushed into the road, screaming and waving my arms. The van stopped, reversed. A “children on board” sign hung from the rear window.
I approached the passenger side with caution. An older woman rolled the window down.
“Hon, are you ok?”
“No, I’m really not,” I said, checking the rest of the car out. It was empty, save for two toddler car seats in the back, “Can you please take me to the nearest police station?”
“Of course. Get in and I’ll call immediately.”
I opened the door and slid in carefully, experiencing so much pain it was almost laughable.
“Here, dear, drink this,” the woman said, handing me a water bottle. I accepted it gratefully, chugging most of it.
That’s when I noticed the bottle of Hair, Skin, Nails vitamins on the floor.
The water in the bottle fizzed.
Everything went hazy.
The woman turned the van around and sped off, just before everything went dark.
“We’re gonna get you back to the Rainwater’s now, sweetheart.”
Stay tuned for part four of Missing Pieces.
Bethany Swoveland is a poet and digital artist in Texas. She’s available for freelance work and can be reached at bethanyswoveland@gmail.com. Sign up for Bethany’s monthly email newsletter here.