Read Online The Skull Ring by Scott Nicholson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Scott Nicholson
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SEVEN
Call the police?
The phone waited across the room.
Think, think, think.
Julia tried to calm her breathing, tried to slice through the crippling blackness that enwrapped her brain like a sheet shrouded a mortician's meal ticket.
A Creep had walked up to her window. Maybe peeked in. The tracks outside had looked fairly fresh, though a couple of leaves had covered part of one heel print.
But a Creep is the least likely culprit. Because Creeps don’t exist, remember?
Who else had business that might have brought him to the rear of the house?
Think, don’t panic .
The electric meter was on the side of the house, clearly visible from the drive. Whoever read the meter wouldn't need to look around back. Same with the phone line. The water supply came from a well at the rear of the property, so there was no water meter.
Then she remembered Walter.
The handyman had probably checked the outside of the windows as well. The prints looked as if they were made by boots with a thick tread, someone with a large foot. Walter was well over six feet tall.
That was it. Sure.
She relaxed against the door, her muscles limp.
No Creeps, no calls to the cops.
The Memphis police had responded to her calls four times in the last year before her moving. All false alarms. They were always patient, except for the fourth call, when the same thin, sneering cop from her first call had shown up.
"What's it this time?" he'd said.
"Someone under my bed," Julia said, already feeling foolish.
The cop had nodded wearily, waited until she unlocked the door, and brushed past her. He went into her bedroom, rummaged around in her closet for a moment, peeked into the bathroom, and waved Julia into the apartment.
"I . . . I swear I heard him. I came in and—"
"All clear." He glared at her. "Same as last time. Did you have the door locked?"
She nodded.
"Then how's a burglar or rapist or whatever going to get in ?" He flipped the lock on her sliding glass door and removed the security bar, slid the door open on its track, and stepped onto the small balcony. He looked out over the Wolf River four stories below.
"I heard him. I swear."
"Sure you did. I checked on my way over. This is the fourth call since last July. I don't know what you're after. Some like the attention, some are cop groupies"—he’d given her a leer that made Julia want to push him over the railing—"and some just want to screw the system. Whichever reason is yours, filing a false report is a crime."
"I really heard him," Julia said, near tears but not allowing herself to cry in front of that monster.
"Yeah, well, next time, do us a favor and call a private investigator," he said. "We got people out there with real problems."
After he left, Julia cried for a half-hour. She never again called the police, even when she was trailed while walking two blocks home one evening, even when she found scratch marks near the lock as if someone had tried to jimmy open her door. And she was determined not to start the same sort of thing in Elkwood. When she called the cops to her new place, she wanted some solid proof to show them.
Except, even in Memphis, you were never really SURE that you heard anything, or that you were followed, or that some Creep had a hot-drool thang going for you. How are you going to convince anyone else when you can't even trust your own mind?
Julia's fear slewed into anger. She slammed into the kitchen, washed the dishes with a great deal of rattling and water-sloshing, and took a shower. She walked nude into her bedroom without bothering to see if the curtains were still closed. She read Spence until he put her to sleep.
She dreamed of bones again.
This time, she was lifting the boards from the floor, prying them up with a long sharp tool. The floor insulation was like yellow cotton candy and had been pushed to the side. She lowered herself between the floor joists to the dirt below. The soil was dark, soft and dry.
Julia dug into the ground
Call the police?
The phone waited across the room.
Think, think, think.
Julia tried to calm her breathing, tried to slice through the crippling blackness that enwrapped her brain like a sheet shrouded a mortician's meal ticket.
A Creep had walked up to her window. Maybe peeked in. The tracks outside had looked fairly fresh, though a couple of leaves had covered part of one heel print.
But a Creep is the least likely culprit. Because Creeps don’t exist, remember?
Who else had business that might have brought him to the rear of the house?
Think, don’t panic .
The electric meter was on the side of the house, clearly visible from the drive. Whoever read the meter wouldn't need to look around back. Same with the phone line. The water supply came from a well at the rear of the property, so there was no water meter.
Then she remembered Walter.
The handyman had probably checked the outside of the windows as well. The prints looked as if they were made by boots with a thick tread, someone with a large foot. Walter was well over six feet tall.
That was it. Sure.
She relaxed against the door, her muscles limp.
No Creeps, no calls to the cops.
The Memphis police had responded to her calls four times in the last year before her moving. All false alarms. They were always patient, except for the fourth call, when the same thin, sneering cop from her first call had shown up.
"What's it this time?" he'd said.
"Someone under my bed," Julia said, already feeling foolish.
The cop had nodded wearily, waited until she unlocked the door, and brushed past her. He went into her bedroom, rummaged around in her closet for a moment, peeked into the bathroom, and waved Julia into the apartment.
"I . . . I swear I heard him. I came in and—"
"All clear." He glared at her. "Same as last time. Did you have the door locked?"
She nodded.
"Then how's a burglar or rapist or whatever going to get in ?" He flipped the lock on her sliding glass door and removed the security bar, slid the door open on its track, and stepped onto the small balcony. He looked out over the Wolf River four stories below.
"I heard him. I swear."
"Sure you did. I checked on my way over. This is the fourth call since last July. I don't know what you're after. Some like the attention, some are cop groupies"—he’d given her a leer that made Julia want to push him over the railing—"and some just want to screw the system. Whichever reason is yours, filing a false report is a crime."
"I really heard him," Julia said, near tears but not allowing herself to cry in front of that monster.
"Yeah, well, next time, do us a favor and call a private investigator," he said. "We got people out there with real problems."
After he left, Julia cried for a half-hour. She never again called the police, even when she was trailed while walking two blocks home one evening, even when she found scratch marks near the lock as if someone had tried to jimmy open her door. And she was determined not to start the same sort of thing in Elkwood. When she called the cops to her new place, she wanted some solid proof to show them.
Except, even in Memphis, you were never really SURE that you heard anything, or that you were followed, or that some Creep had a hot-drool thang going for you. How are you going to convince anyone else when you can't even trust your own mind?
Julia's fear slewed into anger. She slammed into the kitchen, washed the dishes with a great deal of rattling and water-sloshing, and took a shower. She walked nude into her bedroom without bothering to see if the curtains were still closed. She read Spence until he put her to sleep.
She dreamed of bones again.
This time, she was lifting the boards from the floor, prying them up with a long sharp tool. The floor insulation was like yellow cotton candy and had been pushed to the side. She lowered herself between the floor joists to the dirt below. The soil was dark, soft and dry.
Julia dug into the ground
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