“And then,” Richard laughed, “this time it's my daughter coming to me saying, 'Daddy, daddy! I saw the ghost too! The church is haunted!' So, I put on my shoes, cross the street, and from a distance, through a parish room window, I see something white flapping. I cross the road, nearly getting run over three times by the morning traffic, and when I arrive, I see this ghostly, white figure bobbing up and down…”
Jordane also laughed, swayed by Richard's steering adjustments to keep the car on the straight path, using her hands to mimic the scene.
“…I press my face against the window, and then the ghost turns around abruptly to scold me: 'Hey there, you! Is it nice to spy on people in their homes?' And there, I recognize the priest in his white sermon robe, with a gym exercise video on his TV!”
She burst into laughter, gripping the door handle as if she might fall.
“Oh my gosh, he shook his head, I heard about that story for a while... I had solved the mystery of the church ghost that scared all the neighborhood kids, but I had to work hard to make the parents, and especially that old priest, understand that I wasn't some kind of voyeur...”
“See,” she replied, wiping her eyes, “you could be hired for 'Tales from the Crypt', you'd make some very entertaining articles.”
“I don't think so,” he said, “it was just because my two brats were bothering me about it all day long, otherwise I wouldn't have paid it any attention for a second.”
She nodded slightly: her driver seemed the type to be level-headed and down-to-earth.
“Have kids...” he added, shaking his head, which made Jordane laugh even harder.
“Come on,” she said, “admit they are your rays of sunshine!”
To her surprise, he shrugged:
“My two kids are fantastic,” he said, looking at the road, “I love taking them everywhere and do everything I can to give them the keys to a beautiful life. But once the initial euphoria wears off, you think it might have been better not to have them, it's too much stress and work.”
Jordane fell silent: she thought about her parents, wondering if they had her just for the sake of having her. If they had done what their parents did, and their parents before them, just to continue the tradition. Or was it just the biological clock ticking too loudly? Either way, when she thought about their lack of emotional investment, she wondered if sometimes they didn't think like him.
“But I'm sure your parents adore you,” he said, as if reading her thoughts.
She started, then replied more sharply than she intended:
“If that was the case, they wouldn't have gotten rid of me by sending me to a boarding school.”
“I'm sorry,” he replied. “Sometimes parents want to fit their children into boxes, but the more you force, the less it fits.”
She snorted: it resonated quite well with what her own parents had tried to do.
“And you, what box are you trying to fit yours into?”
She immediately regretted what she had just said, realizing she had thrown a jab at a guy who had kindly agreed to take her in his car without asking for anything in return. But instead of getting angry, he simply answered the question:
“None, my kids will do whatever they want to do.”
She pondered his words, wondering if he was an open-minded father, or if he felt nothing at all for his children. She tried to focus on the road, the tired asphalt jolting the pick-up over its cracks, the tall pines surrounding them on each side, some leafless, with gray trunks. She thought back to her parents despite herself. How long had she cut them out of her life? Eight years. As soon as she could, she had left.
“I'm sure your parents read your articles and feel proud of you, even if many find it hard to say.”
She burst into sincere laughter:
“I seriously doubt that, sometimes I even wonder if I didn't choose this profession just to annoy them.”
This time, it was he who laughed out loud.
“Me too, when I was young, my parents didn't understand me at all. I kept my hobbies to myself, like a little secret garden. Even today, I like to keep a bit of privacy.”
He turned right at an intersection, seemingly taking them deeper into the dense forest. The road was still wide enough for trucks carrying logs, which reassured her a bit, but she was starting to look forward to reaching their destination. To find what? She didn't even know.
“Anyway,” he said after a silence, “fortunately, there are still people like you and your friend who think of others. But what's actually going on here?”
She took a moment to think about what she was going to say: if she told him about monsters, about little voices in the mine, he would stop immediately and leave her on the side of the road. Or maybe he would believe her: he didn't live here, he might be a bit more neutral. He might have seen things, too. But she judged it wiser to keep her cards close to her chest for now.
“All these disappearances, these accidents over the years, I find them a bit too suspicious.”
“You mean the mine, right? I've heard of it. You think they're not accidents?”
“Yes, sort of.”
“And the police?”
“They don't care at all. They do the bare minimum.”
“Yeah,” he laughed, “they're all idiots. They wouldn't be able to catch a killer if he waved a knife under their noses. So there's a criminal in Duli?”
“Not exactly,” she said. “I get the impression that the residents are suffering from a malady.”
Strangely, Jordane thought she saw relief on his face, a shadow that passed so quickly she wondered if she had imagined it.
“Some kind of collective hysteria?”
“If you like,” she said. “Have you never seen anything strange in this town?”
“No, not since the pastor doing his exercise,” he laughed.
He seemed sincere, and Jordane wondered if she could trust him, or if he would think her crazy for talking about monsters.
“Apparently, just before the mine accident, the workers heard voices. Just before the prison riot a few years later, it seems the inmates saw things, too. And I want to know what happened at the opening of the Palace of the Strange. What was so bad that it was closed, and especially what silenced the press.”
“Interesting,” he replied, “it'll make a sensational article, no doubt. And your friend, he went to the prison area?”
The man's perceptiveness should have raised an alarm in her head, but she was too busy trying to beat around the bush without admitting she thought the town was really haunted. Raphaël would call her soon, and he would tell her he saw a monster there, and they had to go to the Palace to follow Inès' trail.
“Yes,” she finally said.
“Well, you have to be pretty brave to go alone to places like that. If someone asked me to explore an abandoned prison, I think I'd park, my knees would be knocking, I'd start the car fast and say 'I didn't see or hear anything, sorry, better luck next time'.”
“I have faith in Raphaël,” she said. “Even if he needs a bit of a push, he wouldn't shy away from danger.”
But the sound of this sentence had a bitter aftertaste, lingering in her mouth: back in the mine, when they had fallen, she had convinced him to look for a way out; he had almost preferred to stay put. Once they had managed to escape, he wanted to give up and go home. If it hadn't been for her, he would have been home long ago; but she was not him. Inès had asked for her help, she might even be in danger. She had tried to warn the locals, but no one listened: something malicious lived here, and it was her that Inès had called for help. Jordane found herself wondering if Raphaël was fierce enough to follow a trail, wherever it might lead. What if he missed something she would have noticed? She now regretted sending him alone, not being there to search in her own way. She started to fear missing clues, and the lack of control over the situation brought a surge of heat – was it anger?
No, she trusted him, she had just said so.
“Yes,” she repeated, “if there's something there, he'll find it.”
“That's good,” said Richard, who almost seemed amused, “I had a lot of trouble when I started my company. I had to let the employees work, and all I wanted was to be behind them, breathing down their necks to see if the work was done right. It's not easy to delegate, you always feel like you know better. The worst is when you find a trustworthy guy, and then he quits. It always hurts a bit.”
She nodded silently: for a moment, she imagined Raphaël handing in his resignation, leaving without her, leaving her alone in her predicament. But she pushed the thought away.
“We're here,” suddenly said Richard.
Jordane looked up and saw a wide dirt trail plunging into the forest to their right. Richard signaled, even though they were alone on the road - they hadn't crossed paths with anyone since they left - and turned. The tires screeched on the gravel, and they arrived in front of a gated fence, secured with a large padlock. Richard stopped the car and got out. Jordane stayed inside, looking at the heavy gate that didn't seem to move often. A sign hung on the gate read 'PRIVATE PROPERTY - DO NOT ENTER', another displayed a safety helmet. She heard Richard walk around the pickup, and felt the vehicle sink as he climbed onto the back. She glanced at the rearview mirror: the window at the back of the cabin was closed with a cover, probably to prevent curious eyes from seeing the contents of the bed if the pickup had its cabin installed. She wanted to pull the cover to see what he was doing, but refrained. She heard a toolbox open, then someone rummaging through tools. She jumped when a wrench fell with a dull sound onto the bed, followed by Richard's loud “Damn.” He continued for a few more seconds, then she felt the pickup sway as he closed the box and stood up. He jumped off the side, then slowly headed towards the front, passenger side. Jordane saw him arrive from the right mirror: she could only see his left hand, which was closed around a small object. He reached her level and passed her, brushing his hand against hers on the outside of the door.
She shivered.
He positioned himself in front of the gate and inserted the object he was holding into the padlock. He had to force it before it finally opened with a shrill squeak. A taste of rusty copper instantly filled Jordane's mouth. He dropped the chain to the ground and pushed the gate aside. Behind it, there was only a large dirt parking lot filled with sawdust and bordered by piles of dry logs. Richard returned and resumed his seat at the wheel.
“The amusement park is that way,” he said, pointing to the dense forest, about a kilometer behind those trees. “I'll just take a few minutes to gather my equipment, then we'll get there quickly.”
“Alright,” Jordane replied.
He restarted the car and drove down the path, skirting the deserted parking lot. The road formed a bend darkened by trees, with a few sickly ones looking like ghostly white figures watching from afar. Driving slowly to avoid potholes, they arrived a few meters later in front of the sawmill: the large rusted sheet metal hangar housed imposing machines for stripping bark, cutting wood. Heavy chains hung here and there, discs the size of Jordane, turned orange by the rain, were stacked against piles of logs. The place was deserted, layers of sawdust turning into humus.
He stopped near the entrance and turned off the engine. He saw Jordane, who seemed thoughtful beside him.
“Worried?” he asked.
“Why?” she replied sincerely.
He inhaled through his teeth, as if searching for the right words without offending her; but his expression seemed almost insincere.
“About sending your friend off on his own.”
The remark hit her like a slap, and her face turned red. A spike of anger invaded her, but it was mostly shame she felt, to her surprise.
“Not at all!” she protested a bit too loudly. “He agreed to go, and we've always done it this way! He always grumbles a bit, but he gets through in the end.”
“I understand,” he assured her, “but for example, I avoid leaving my most complicated projects to my less determined employees. And I get the impression that in your duo, it's you who represent that quality.”
She wanted to deny his words, but her mouth stayed open without making a sound: what did he mean by that? Yes, it was true that Raphaël always kept one foot out, to be sure he could drop the hot potato if there was trouble. It was present in all aspects of his life, she had noticed it a long time ago. Just the story with his ex-girlfriend: they made a great couple, but as soon as it got too serious for him, he made up this ridiculous story about a promotion and moving away. He preferred to flee rather than take the risk of a lasting relationship. As a friend, she had pointed it out to him, pushed him to call her back, but he just diverted the subject with a joke, or simply shrugged and muttered a lame excuse to land on his feet.
Initially, he didn't want to go to the prison. It was the same in the mine: he only thought about returning. Didn't he understand the importance of the situation? Human lives were at stake: when would the next disaster strike? What monster was still hidden somewhere, waiting for the opportunity to attack? And Inès. She had called her for help, her. It counted. It had to count. Every piece of the puzzle was important, and if he didn't do his part, if she couldn't count on him, she wouldn't make it.
“I trust him,” she said in a flat tone.
He nodded absentmindedly, and his detached reaction infuriated her, and she wanted to slap him. Who was he to throw her into these painful reflections, and act as if he was only talking about the weather?
“You can stay in the car if you want,” he said curtly.
She was so surprised by his dry tone that she remained silent while he opened the door and walked towards the building with a casual stride. She barely noticed that he now wore a small tool pouch strapped to his waist, so furious was she.
“How dare he ask if I'm worried about sending him off alone? He said yes, I just asked him.”
“I should have gone with him, I'm sure that riot didn't break out on its own.”
Thoughts swirled in her head like bats, their enraged fangs injecting the poison of doubt into her mind with each pass. She tried to focus on something else but failed to settle on a single thought, caught in a rage whose source she didn't understand. She didn't even notice that the place had been abandoned for years, that no construction had taken place here in ages. She failed to realize that the only tire tracks on the dirt path came from the same vehicle. Her vision was clouded by frustration, fixated on how Richard had unfairly suggested she was asking too much of Raphaël. Someone had called for her help, and she couldn't even find them. She had been considered crazy all her life, and if she couldn't prove she was right, no one would.
“Always do what's right.”
One of Father Donovan's favorite sayings came back to her, eliciting a nervous laugh. The School of Good Conduct was far behind her, but apparently not far enough.
Gradually, Jordane returned to reality after getting lost in her thoughts: how long had Richard been gone? Ten minutes? The door to the sawmill offices was still open, but still no sign of life. She hesitated to leave the car but decided first to take a quick look at her driver's vehicle while he was away. Just a precaution. She opened the glove compartment: it was perfectly orderly, containing all the documents of the pickup, as well as a reserve of bulbs. She looked down: even the floor mat at her feet was spotless. Odd for a construction truck, but it probably showed that good old Richard was a neat freak. She then reached into the door pocket, also impeccably clean. She lowered the driver's sun visor and pulled out an old photo: it showed Richard, a bit younger, with a little girl on his shoulders, and a much smaller woman, a baby in her arms. That must surely be Mrs. Richard and their two children. This family photo full of smiles and sparkling eyes reassured her about the character.
She settled back into her seat, but it was becoming increasingly uncomfortable: it wasn't her forte to sit idle. She needed to be in action, always productive. Every time she sat on a couch, or turned on the TV, a small voice would sneak into her head: “Are you sure you don't have anything more useful to do? Are you up to date with your daily tasks? Yes? Then start getting ahead for tomorrow...” and she would sigh internally before getting back to work. Once, she was watching a movie, sprawled on her couch with a fever and a runny nose, when Raphaël had shown up at her place with a tray of sushi and a box of painkillers. She had jumped, and in a reflex, turned off the TV before rushing to the kitchen to start the previous day's overdue dishes. When he came into the room to greet her, she pretended to look better and refused the painkillers, only taking the sushi.
Today, the little voice was back: her fingers itched, her mind looped, and she heard: “What are you doing right now? Get to work, come on! You have a million things to do!”
She couldn't continue sitting here, so she got out. The sun was still high in the sky, but the air was beginning to cool. The place was perfectly calm: no car sounds, no rustling leaves in the forest disturbing the immobile trees. She took a few steps, breaking the heavy silence with her shoes on the gravel covering the road. She glanced at the still-open door, inviting her to enter; however, she headed towards the back of the pickup instead. She climbed onto the back with great difficulty, nearly tearing the back of her pants as she lifted her leg so high: against the back of the cabin was a brand-new red toolbox. She approached, grimacing as her steps made the pickup's suspensions squeak, then tried to open the box: locked.
“Typical,” she thought, “Mr. Richard likes his things in order.”
She jumped off the pickup, almost sprawling on the ground, and pondered her next move as the dust cloud at her feet slowly dissipated: she could try to walk to the Palace of the Strange, but she didn't want to follow the road for God knows how many more kilometers. She could also go back to the car and wait for Richard's return: no, she needed to be proactive. She patted her palms against her thighs and headed towards the entrance of the sawmill.
***
The power must have been cut in the premises, as it was dark, very dark.
“Richard?” she called.
No answer.
She continued forward: directly to her left, a small staircase went up at a right angle with a “DIRECTION” sign, but she assumed Richard would be more likely in the workshop. To her right, a closed door led to the loading area.
Through the glass, she managed to make out “EMPLOYEES ONLY ACCESS” written in red letters on the thin sheet of paper. She continued, calling him again: the silence was total in the abandoned premises. What kind of work could he have here? Or was he recovering unused raw materials? She didn't know, but she wouldn't fail to ask him.
She arrived in front of a break room: a dozen chairs were placed on a large camping table, an empty fridge had its door wide open, and the two coffee makers on the sink were connected by long spider webs. She entered and ran a finger over the table: a thick layer of dust remained on her index finger. She wiped it off and continued her exploration while calling for Richard, to no avail.
“Jordane?”
At first, she thought she had imagined it. She listened intently but heard nothing, only the dull thumping of her heart in her ears.
“Jordane, is that you?”
This time, she was sure she hadn't imagined it.
“Richard?” she shouted.
“I'm here!” she heard in return, very faintly.
She made her way to the end of the corridor, arriving at a workshop. She reached the doorway and stopped abruptly: she thought of the wolf. What if it was a trap? No, he was trapped in the mine, they had collapsed tons of rubble on him. Maybe he was even dead.
“What about what I saw in the rearview mirror, leaving the forest?”
A long shiver slowly crawled up her spine: what if, when she entered this room, she saw two yellow eyes staring at her from the depths of darkness? She froze, unaware of the shadow that blocked the corridor just behind her, almost touching the ceiling.
“Jordane?”
She screamed as she felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned around, recoiling: Richard stood before her, looking confused.
“I thought you were in the car,” he said simply.
“I almost had a heart attack!” she yelled.
But the giant didn't seem inclined to apologize, which got on her already frayed nerves: her heart pounded in her chest, and she felt pins and needles in her fingertips. Instead, he simply said:
“It's dangerous to wander around places like this. You can quickly get hurt, or worse.”
She was about to ask him to move aside so she could go back to the car, but at that moment her phone rang: Raphaël was calling.
She answered on the second ring:
“Raphaël?”
“Jordane!” she heard crackling from the other end of the line. “Where are you?”
He sounded completely panicked, and she could hear the roar of his car's engine through the microphone, making her fear the worst.
“I'm on the road to the Palace of the Strange,” she replied, “and you?”
“Great,” he shouted, “once you get there, especially don't go in, I'm coming to join you right away!”
“Why shouldn't I go in? What's happening to you?”
“Jordane, we have to get out of here! I'm coming to pick you up, this place is too dangerous, damn it!”
“What's going on?” she replied, trying to think at the same time, “did you go to the prison?”
“Yeah! They're dead, damn it, he killed them! I couldn't do anything, I swear, but I'm not going back to that town, ever!”
Her heart stopped. She moved away from Richard: she didn't know if he had heard what was being said, but things seemed to be getting serious.
“What?”
“Yes, the riot didn't start by itself, there's a damn monster in that prison!”
“I knew it!” was the only thing she thought.
“What's the connection with the mine?” she replied. “Is it related to the Palace of the Strange?”
He remained silent on the other end of the phone. She could still hear the car driving, but he said nothing.
“Well?” she pressed.
“Jordane,” he said, sounding stunned, “are you listening to what I'm saying? We don't care, damn it, if we stay in this town, we're going to die!”
She felt herself starting to get angry but took the time to step outside to be alone, Richard stepping aside to let her pass. She tried to remain diplomatic:
“Listen, Raphaël, you said it yourself, there is something nefarious here. Inès was right, and if she's in danger, we have to help her. Her and everyone else.”
“No, no, no,” he replied, now irritated. “We're going to get killed, that's it. There's no way I'm going back there. People should just move, end of story. I'm coming to pick you up, and we're leaving!”
She thought about what Richard had said: he sent his most determined employees to the important sites. And if he didn't have any on hand? He went himself. She was sure of it. Shouldn't she take care of this story alone, this time?
“Raphaël,” she said calmly. “Go home. If you don't want to continue, you can leave. But I'm staying, I'll put an end to this story, and only then will I return.”
He was silent again, but she felt from here that she had hurt him. Again, she regretted the words that came out of her mouth, but it was too late to take them back.
“You're unfair,” he finally said. “You didn't see what I saw. And I don't even know why I went there. I don't know why you're being stubborn, but I'm going to the Palace. I'll wait there for five minutes. No more.”
This time, it was she who felt stung. Before she could realize it, she started shouting into the phone:
“ME? UNFAIR? LOOK AT YOURSELF, RUNNING AWAY AS SOON AS IT GETS TOO HARD! DID YOU REALLY EVEN GO THERE? THESE PEOPLE NEED US, LEAVING LIKE THIS, ABANDONING THEM TO THEIR FATE, THAT WOULD BE UNFAIR!”
She gasped for breath. He remained silent, still with the rumbling of the Mercedes in the background. He wasn't going to respond, she knew. He wouldn't fight, he would let her have the last word, and that would be all. She hated him for that. So she did what she expected of him:
“If you want to run away, run away. I don't need you.”
And then, she wished she could take it back. She knew she had done something irreparable, that there was nothing left to fix things, but she had done it anyway. She was going to drive away her only friend. But anger had gotten the best of her. She didn't know why, she kept thinking about what Richard had said: no one wanted to face their demons, someone had to do it for others. She had to do it, right?
“Ok.”
That was the only response he gave before hanging up.
She couldn't believe it. She had just sent Raphaël away, and she didn't know why. “You can stay in the car if you want,” he had said. “...The least determined employees...” his words echoed in her head. “There's a monster in my town,” Inès had written in her letter. “There's a monster under my bed,” Jordane had told her parents. She felt like crying.
“Are you okay?” Richard asked from behind her.
She faced away to hide the tears threatening to run down her cheeks.
“Yes.”
“I'm finished,” he continued, “do you still have a meeting with your friend?”
She burst into a terrible laugh:
“No, I don't think so.”
She heard him take something out of his pouch, just behind her. Then, she felt his breath on her neck:
“Perfect.”
Two needles lightly pricked her back, and her entire body was instantly traversed by a wave so powerful that the world disappeared around her, drowning out the sound of the electric discharge going CLACK-CLACK-CLACK...
***
Shapes and colors danced before Jordane as she slowly opened her eyes. She didn't know where she was, but her entire body ached, as if seized by severe cramps. Her skull screamed as her vision began to adjust: the blurry room gradually came into focus. She saw a row of lockers, some still open but empty. A few had faded fluorescent green post-its with handwritten names on them. The spinning bench before her stopped, and she noticed a pair of safety shoes placed underneath. Then, the smell of mold hit her nose: she lowered her eyes - even this motion pained her - and saw she was lying on a sticky, old mattress. She tried to move her hand to get up, but it stayed in place. She attempted to stretch her legs and felt a slight pressure around her neck. She stopped moving and took the time to breathe: gradually, she regained her senses. Her numb arms were behind her back, her legs folded upon themselves. She felt the rough touch of a rope against her wrists and ankles. Panicking, she wanted to struggle, but the knot around her neck tightened her throat further. She let out a moan, not yet understanding the situation she was now in.
A noise sounded in the distance. She strained to listen and soon distinguished footsteps approaching. The echo grew closer until she saw a shadow block the faint daylight at the doorway. The man entered the room and placed a heavy red, brand-new toolbox on the floor in front of Jordane.
“Help, somebody help,” she managed to utter.
But Richard left the room without paying her any attention. His steps, measured and confident, faded away completely. She heard the pickup truck's door open and close, and the engine start. She thought he was leaving, abandoning her tied up there: she tried to turn over, but moving her leg violently tightened the knot around her throat, cutting off her breath. She wanted to scream, but no air could escape her lungs: she put her leg back in place, almost against her buttock, and the rope loosened just enough for her to gulp air, but the nylon's contact still burned her skin.
She heard the car's engine from the other side of the room, probably at the back of the building, then the noise ceased. Moments later, slow, regular footsteps approached, and only then did she begin to grasp what was happening.
Richard entered the room silently. He held a thin cord in his hands, winding it with military precision and agility. He finished by tying a complex knot frighteningly quickly and opened the toolbox with a key to store it.
“Richard...” she whispered painfully.
He met her gaze for a moment, then turned away as if uninterested. He delicately reached into his box and lined up several tools on the ground: a screwdriver, a pair of pliers, wire cutters, a mallet.
Jordane's blood ran cold, and at the same moment, a sharp pain bit her thigh: the cramp was so intense she wanted to straighten her leg, but she only tightened the rope around her neck until it dug into her throat. Her breath cut off, and she could neither scream nor plead. The thread sliced her skin, and she felt as if her lungs would explode. Suffocating, her eyes widened, her mouth opened without a sound. She writhed in pain, but the bonds only tightened. Richard stood up and positioned himself in front of her, watching her closely with crossed arms. She wanted to beg him to release her, but her throat was completely blocked.
“The more you move, the tighter it gets,” he simply said.
She tried to bend her leg, even though the cramp's pain screamed the opposite, but the bond did not loosen, and air still could not reach her lungs. Her body jerked, trying to force inhalation, but in vain.
“Now that you understand how it works, I'll loosen the knot a bit if you promise to stay still.”
Her vision started to darken. She tried to look up at Richard, but she could no longer see him.
“Nod if you understand.”
It took her a moment to process his words, her brain beginning to starve of oxygen. Her body convulsed, but she finally nodded frantically, tears in her eyes.
“Good.”
He bent down, fiddled with something behind her back, and she felt the ropes unravel: she inhaled deeply, the air burning her throat like lava, and she began to cough, spit, breathless. Her entire body burned, and she tried to regain her breath by moving as little as possible. Tears streamed from her eyes as Richard delicately removed her makeshift collar. His cold hands against her skin sent shivers down her spine. He examined the object for a moment, then put it in the back pocket of his pants.
“What are you going to do to me?” she whimpered, out of breath.
He completely ignored her.
He picked up the pliers and snapped them repeatedly, as if warming up. The metallic clicking drove Jordane mad, and she began to scream.
Richard kicked her in the stomach, cutting off her breath: she doubled over in pain, and the rope tightened its grip on her throat, silencing her.
“Dolls don't talk,” he simply said.
She wanted to argue, to plead, to try to reason with him, anything, but the thread was already on the verge of strangling her, and she was too afraid of suffocating again. She looked up at him with a dark glare that had no effect on him. As if reading her thoughts, he explained what was going to happen.
“I am Cold-Blood,” he simply said, “you have been chosen. We will spend the evening here together, and by the end of the night, you will be mine. You will become my slave in paradise, with all the others.”
“He's completely insane,” she thought. “What kind of maniac is this? What's going to happen to me?”
He knelt in front of her and began unbuttoning her shirt. Jordane trembled, crying with rage and fear, but she knew what would happen if she moved.
He slid his hand under her bra, and that's when she struggled: she turned suddenly, escaping his grip, but the thread cut off her breath. She choked, each jolt of pain tightening the trap further. She tried to scream, but no sound came out. Her lips seemed to form “Don't touch me.”
“Be good,” he said reasonably. “Just let it happen, and everything will be alright.”
Her face turned red, her vision blurred again, unable to breathe. Tears now stained the dirty mattress.
“Calm down, and I'll loosen it.”
She let out a groan of rage, which seemed to tear her lungs apart. She thought she would die at any moment. She thought of Raphaël: he wouldn't come to save her. She was alone. And it was all her fault. She was going to die here in terrible pain, all because she had rejected the only person who could help her.
She tried to relax her body as much as possible and became still. Only her chest rose in spasms, struggling to inhale air. Black dots danced before her eyes, but she held on.
“I'm calm, I'm calm,” she told herself in her mind.
“Good,” he said after what seemed like an eternity to her.
He loosened the knot again, and the pain she had felt the first time returned, magnified tenfold: it took several attempts to get air to her lungs, and what passed through her throat felt like molten metal. She gasped and spat more fiercely, and when Richard exposed one of her breasts, this time she did nothing.
“Good girl,” he commented.
Then he grabbed the pink tip with his pliers and squeezed with all his might.
The pain sent her to another world, a wave surging through her body like the explosion of a star. A sensation she never thought possible. A scream slowly rose in her throat, but she arched so violently that the rope silenced her instantly, digging into her skin. Her eyes rolled back, her whole body tensed like a spring. She nearly passed out, but Richard loosened the tie.
She regained consciousness, but the pain was so intense she couldn't tell if she was breathing again or still suffocating. She met Richard's gaze, who simply looked at her with dead eyes. She cried even more. He dipped his pliers into her shirt again.
“DON'T TOUCH ME! DON'T TOUCH ME! DON'T TOUCH ME!” she screamed in vain.
He repeated his action, and this time it was as if the entire earth turned upside down: she tipped backward, swept into the void, and a veil of perfect blackness enveloped her vision as she lost consciousness.
***
Jordan was thirteen years old. Having just entered junior high, her lack of self-confidence had driven her to emphasize her passion for the world of horror: dark clothes, a Dracula t-shirt, skull pins on her backpack. After school, instead of playing with her dolls, learning to sew or cook, she spent her evenings reading comics about a demon that had settled in a quaint town and began to spread terror among the inhabitants with his bloodthirsty monsters. To her parents' dismay, she avidly followed the hero trying to prove the existence of these grief-causing monsters, buying each new volume as soon as it hit the local store. It wasn't exactly an activity that helped develop her social skills, as she spent hours wandering in her imaginary world, collecting true crime articles and posters of artists with obscene makeup. That's why she had tried to do what some children do when they need to assert themselves: build her personality around a single trait, a unique interest. She had broken her piggy bank for the start of junior high: her parents had prepared her little plaid skirt, thick tights, and pastel-colored polo, all neatly folded on the bathroom furniture, a cross necklace placed on top.
Jordan's parents were loving and attentive, but to survive in this world, they desperately needed to be governed by immutable rules, a strict code of conduct, and that everything in their universe had a purpose, a greater design than themselves. That's why each of them had turned to Religion, met at church, and lived according to the Holy Book ever since. As the world evolved around them, the society moved, their faith had been transformed into a kind of constant dread: they had once embraced the Holy Scriptures, now they clung to it. Jordan's father had long been a good industrial designer, drawing complex parts with only a ruler, a well-sharpened pencil, and his skilled hand, and the gradual arrival of computers and design software terrified him. Rather than trying to adapt, make the most of his experience, and replace the pen with the mouse, at the risk of becoming a beginner again, even for a short while, his fear of change took over, and he categorically refused to touch anything that worked with a screen. He found meaning in his fears: software will never be as precise as a human. Computers are a fad that will soon disappear. The Holy Book was written by hand, it's in this pain that he had to work.
Of course, computers did not disappear. His contracts did. They gradually retreated into their comfort zone, the world of saints that never changed, never asked anyone to question themselves.
That's why Jordan's interests made them so uncomfortable. And why they put so much energy into controlling her image. No matter that she read impious texts alone in her room, but in front of their community, meaning anyone setting foot on the marble floor of the church, she had to appear happy and fulfilled, an example of the benefits of a pious life. Otherwise, what was the point of all these sufferings?
And that's also why on the first day of school, she put on her tights, her skirt, her polo, kissed her parents goodbye, and in the school restroom, she opened her backpack to bring out her arsenal of the damned, clothes that really made a statement.
The day went very badly.
The children mocked her, calling her a slut, accusing her of smoking in secret or doing weird things in cemeteries or deep in the forest.
At thirteen, Jordan was already stubborn, so she didn't get discouraged: she was what she was, and she had to own it. Whatever the consequences. She hated religion, the way people used it to govern you, tell you what to do, what to think, how to dress. She preferred the uncertain, the discovery.
During the first term, the bullying gradually stopped at school; but at home, tension was rising. Her parents began to get feedback from other parents. They were asked if she was a Satanist. If she was depressed. They could help with prayers, have her come to church more often: these remarks infuriated Jordan's parents. Every morning, her mother searched her bag. She took her right up to the school, waiting for her to enter the classroom. But Jordan held on. She always managed to hide one or two pins. She remained silent in front of the priest, at church, despite her mother's sighs behind her.
She held on until the last day before the school holidays.
“Sit down,” the principal had said, pointing to the seat in front of her.
Madam Eleau had led the elementary school all her career. Soon to retire, she let nothing slide and evidently intended to carry her image of an authoritarian principal to her grave.
Jordan sat down, called to this office for the first time. Madam Eleau sat straight, her eyebrows furrowed behind her glasses, her hair pulled back. Her prominent cheekbones were set in a severe air, her lips so pinched they turned white. In front of her, on her impeccably tidy desk, lay a cigarette butt; but not just any butt, one of those you roll yourself, with a piece of cardboard instead of a filter.
“You know why you're here,” she said dryly.
Jordan shook her head. She wondered why Madam Eleau was picking up the trash that lay on the ground. Or if she was the one smoking, which surprised her. She prided herself on appearing impeccable, without weakness. And a dependency on any substance would have been seen as a sign of weakness in her eyes.
“Don't lie,” she growled, “I know it was you who smoked this cigarette!”
“It's not true!” she protested loudly, “it's not mine!”
This butt had been found on the windowsill by the janitor, in front of the toilets. The principal didn't know who had dared to bring drugs into the school premises, but she was determined to unmask the culprit to settle the matter. Only an expulsion would save her image and that of the school.
“Young lady, I would appreciate it if you lower your voice when you talk to me,” she intimated. “You are in serious trouble! We were wrong to let your offensive attire pass, look where it's led you now!”
“But I didn't do anything! I've never smoked in my life! It's disgusting!”
“Silence!” she yelled. “A student saw you! You are the disgrace of this school! Your parents are on their way, we'll see what they think!”
“No!” she cried in despair, tears in her eyes. “Please! I swear it wasn't me!”
But Madam Eleau wasn't listening. Jordan's parents arrived half an hour later, their cheeks red with shame and anger. They calmly discussed the situation with the principal, accepted Jordan's one-month expulsion while profusely apologizing, and drove home. During the trip, no one said a word. Only Jordan sniffled loudly in the back, tears streaming down her cheeks. It was only when they arrived home that they exploded and yelled at her all evening.
What no one knew was that it was Tommy, a classmate of hers, who had smoked the joint. He had stolen the cigarette butt from his older brother, which was stuck between the slats of the terrace decking, and had puffed on it in front of his friends to show off. He vomited his guts out on the way home from school and never touched a cigarette again in his life. But the next day, when the principal went around the students to extract information, and it was his turn, he was so scared of getting caught that he pointed to Jordan, a designated victim.
The following week, Jordan's parents imposed a strict regime of various punishments on her, such as cleaning, writing lines repeatedly, mandatory church sessions, and confiscated everything not related to religion in her room, replacing posters with crosses and comics with terrifying brochures about hell and what awaited there. These brochures were the only ones she leafed through with an unhealthy interest.
But it was a few days later that everything changed.
“What's he saying, I can't hear anything!” said Jordan's father to his wife.
“Shush!” she replied, “I'm listening!”
About thirty people had gathered in front of the church that afternoon, and the priest was trying to speak over the hubbub of all his parishioners talking and shouting at the same time.
“Sixty dead! My God, how is that possible!” someone said.
“Young people today, they have no values anymore!” another replied.
“It's the devil!” someone shouted. “Society is collapsing!”
“Please calm down!” the priest shouted.
“What are we going to do, father! We need to write to our representatives, this can't go on!”
“And if it was my child, in that school!” a woman yelled, with murmurs of agreement rising in the assembly.
The priest was backed up against his door, struggling to speak in front of the panicked crowd.
“Silence!” a man with a deep voice shouted, “let him speak! For the love of God!”
Finally, the mouths closed, and heads turned towards the priest.
“Right,” he said, clearing his throat. “I have spoken with the police chief. It seems the killer has made twelve victims, plus about twenty injured.”
Murmurs of horror rose from the assembly.
“Among the victims, there are children and teachers. God bless them.”
He made the sign of the cross, and was imitated by everyone else. A woman burst into tears somewhere.
“The killer is a high school student,” he continued.
Sounds of “My God...”, “Lord!” were heard.
“And if it happens in our town!” a man shouted.
Panic rose.
“It seems he was a Satanist!” a woman yelled.
This time, the crowd erupted, and the priest struggled for a moment to speak again:
“Alas, the police chief confirmed it to me.”
Cries of horror arose, some made the sign of the cross, others knelt in prayer.
“He would have engaged in rituals, all kinds of occult practices, it's true.”
The crowd lost its mind. Calls for the death penalty, for the killer and all Satanists, arose. It was said that the demon had carried him away. That the Last Judgment was approaching. Quickly, names were designated, people who lived on the fringes of society, others who listened to Rock, or even those who had not been to church for a while. Some eyes discreetly turned towards Jordan's parents, as if afraid to meet their gaze, and terror seized them: how long before everyone knew that Jordan had been expelled? How long before they realized she regularly came to church for her problems with her impious fantasies?
Jordan's parents were not afraid that she was a Satanist and that she would decimate her class, but they were terrified that she would be accused of Satanism and that they would both be rejected from the church. They discreetly left the assembly and returned home by car, discussing, arguing, conspiring.
When they arrived, they burst into Jordan's room: they found her at her desk, she jumped as they rushed at her. They shouted gibberish, talking about a boy possessed by the devil killing his friends, about hell, church, and excommunications. They searched her room, turning around her as she stood still, stunned, not understanding what was happening. Her father got hold of one of the religious magazines they had foisted on her. The cover showed Jesus on his cross, and out of frustration at being unjustly punished, she had drawn horns and a pointed tail on him.
This was exactly the excuse her parents were looking for: the argument erupted, and they ordered her to pack her bags for a “reprogramming” course to cure her of her illness. She protested, trying to explain that she didn't care about religion, that she just liked horror comics, that she found werewolves cool, that she liked music with a bit of punch, that she was not a Satanist, but it only fueled their fire. The argument ended when they slammed the door as they left her room, leaving her in tears, trembling.
As Jordan gathered her things and tidied her room, she heard them talking on the phone, but she couldn't make out what they were saying. The call lasted all evening, and when they finally hung up, the house became silent as a grave.
Jordan didn't know that the storm was going to hit her in the middle of the night.
Many years later, she took an interest in that famous shooting. She even wrote an article about it, which earned her the job offer at Tales from the Crypt. The shooter's name was Morvan. He was seventeen years old. One day, he stole his grandfather's hunting gun, arrived at his school, and opened fire in his classroom. By the time the police arrived and did nothing for forty minutes while encircling the building, he had shot sixty-two students and teachers, killing twelve on the spot, and twenty-one more died from their injuries at the hospital. He eventually turned the gun on himself, sending his brains against the still-on projector displaying the diagram of a sedimentary rock layer sliding over a limestone layer. They entered twenty-five minutes after the last fatal shot, some students having remained hidden in the same classroom where the shooter had committed suicide, not daring to move.
This event created panic among parents throughout the region. They were all terrified that the same thing would happen near their homes. They sought the cause of this massacre, something tangible, that they could point to, forbid. To have the feeling of having control over it, and sleep peacefully. This movement dragged the police forces along with them, and being harassed to find the cause of this massacre, they had to find one. They couldn't say “nothing indicated he would do this, let's just cross our fingers it doesn't happen again”, so they found – or rather were whispered in the ear – that he was a Satanist, a kid part of this new youth losing their parents' traditions. The news spread like wildfire, panic erupted, the witch hunt began. Just a young person listening to Hard Rock, wearing a skull t-shirt, or not having a crew cut could end up in custody. Church attendance skyrocketed, people were packed standing up, the doors could barely be closed behind them. The donation envelope swelled.
And Father Donovan's school started to fill up.
The Satanic panic caused damage. Jordan paid the price. One could say she was there at the wrong time, in the wrong place. A designated victim. And in the end, what did all this stem from? It all stemmed from a single event, something very, very important that happened to her when she was seven years old. She didn't realize it, but it was important for her to remember what had happened when...
… It was as if the hand of God Himself grabbed her hair and pulled her out of the dream world, back into reality. Her mouth and nose burned as though she was breathing sulfuric acid. Her eyes, bulging out, stung so badly she thought needles had been thrust into them. She couldn't catch her breath; she was hyperventilating. Gradually, her body remembered the pain she had felt before passing out, and it resumed its terrible screams. She was back in the sawmill, curled up on the mattress, tied up. Richard squatted in front of her. When her vision adjusted, she saw he was holding a bottle in his hands.
“Welcome back,” he said. “You think you can get off easy by fainting?”
He shook the nearly full bottle.
“This is ammonia,” he continued, “to keep you awake all night. I have a whole bottle of it!”
He set the bottle on the bench and began to gently stroke her face. He wiped away her tears with his thumb, pushing aside the hair that stuck to her skin.
“You're perfect,” he said.
He stood up to take off his jacket.
Jordane was in excruciating pain, but the ammonia kept her mind alert: she had fainted. And she had dreamed. And it seemed to her that one detail was important. What was it?
He hung his jacket on a hanger, in an empty locker.
It was her school, in middle school. No, not that. She was being punished. There had been an accident.
Her mind was racing a thousand miles an hour, while a hammer pounded in her skull, a dull pain that almost prevented her from hearing herself think. Richard lined up the pliers with the other tools on the ground, and picked up the wire cutters instead.
“No, not an accident, the massacre,” she thought. “The guy who slaughtered her classroom.”
This idea had jumped into her head, but she didn't know why. The story had made the headlines, she had written about it. They had labeled him a Satanist, because it suited all those self-righteous fools that it couldn't be one of their own who did it, that to prevent it from happening again, all they had to do was set hundreds of lives on fire and blood, as long as you weren't wrongly accused and the pitchfork turned against you. Every tragedy had to make sense, and they had to be on the right side of the stick.
But she had dug deeper.
They said they found a whole collection of violent video games in the killer's room. But he had posted dozens and dozens of photos of himself and his room on his blog, and he didn't have any of that. There were school books in the photos, not video games. There was an adult magazine poster on the wall, not Satan.
Photos... Yes, he had taken a picture of himself pointing a gun at the camera lens. There was a text with the photo, but she couldn't remember it. His blog... how had she come across it? Because no one else had.
Yes, that was it. Three students' mothers had filed a complaint with the police because the killer had made death threats to their children, at school. They had given the blog address, because he bragged about it to anyone who would listen. But the cops never did anything. Even with the photos where he posed with a weapon.
“Coming soon to your neighborhood. Right, Vincent?” That was the text under the photo. He was going to kill Vincent and many others a few weeks later.
He bragged about his blog, but not just about the weapons. No, not just that. He was a terror at school, it was said that pets tended to disappear near his house, but not just that.
Richard opened and closed the wire cutters several times, pleased with the sound of the two blades pressing against each other.
He bragged about the result of his psychological test.
Yes, that's it. That's what Vincent's mother had shown to the police. Just before he posted the photo with the gun, a carnivorous smile on his lips. He had posted the result of an online personality test. And it said he had psychopathic traits.
Because that's what these guys are. These killers. Psychopaths. But why was she thinking about this?
She looked at Richard: his eyes were black, as if empty. As if he was focused on the task, and that was all there was.
This guy was a fucking psychopath.
He plunged the wire cutters into her blouse.
No matter if she choked, no matter if she died, she contorted in a reflex to avoid being mutilated. The rope tightened its grip, and again her breathing was cut off, and it was even more painful than the last time.
“You still don't get it?” he said calmly.
He watched her choke, writhing in pain, tightening the knot even more.
“This guy is a psychopath,” she thought, “I'm screwed.”
But a glimmer shone in her mind. A glimmer so faint, smothered by the lack of oxygen and unbearable pain, she almost missed grasping it.
“What is a psychopath?”
She clung to that thought.
“Someone who's not wired to have empathy.”
Then she clung to that one, like a drowning person to a lifebuoy.
“He loves lying and manipulating.”
Black spots returned to her vision.
“Because it gives him control over others.”
She felt herself almost go, and Richard loosened the knot. Air rushed into her lungs like a cloud of radioactive dust: this was the last time she could endure it, she felt that next time, she would die. But no, Richard would make sure to keep her awake until he decided it was over.
“What do you do to destabilize someone who seeks control?” she thought. Then: “Yes, I have to do it one more time, I can do it.”
Richard resumed his work.
“You deprive them of control.”
He didn't have time to plunge the wire cutters again when she used all her strength to kick, knocking over the bench with a thunderous crash. The rope snapped against her throat, then there was a sound of breaking glass: the ammonia poured onto the sticky floor of the locker room.
“FUCK, WHAT KIND OF BITCH ARE YOU!!” suddenly screamed Richard.
He threw himself to the ground, passed his hand over the wet spot, but it was already absorbed by the grime and dust.
“WHAT DID YOU DO, YOU FUCKING WHORE!!” he roared.
He lunged at her and slapped her, causing blood to flow from her nose; but she felt nothing, still choking.
“HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO DO THIS NOW! DON'T YOU DARE FAINT ON ME NOW!”
He went back to the broken bottle and tried to recover some liquid, anything that had got stuck in a shard of glass.
“YOU RUINED EVERYTHING, YOU FUCKING WHORE!” he raged, on all fours, his back turned. “I'M GOING TO HAVE TO CUT YOU UP! YOU HEAR THAT, BITCH??”
But Jordane wasn't listening. She was busy trying to find the rope along her back. She could hardly feel her fingers, but she had managed to grab the wire cutters he had dropped on the mattress. She managed to find it, and was about to cut it. But no. Her fingers wouldn't move anymore. Her vision darkened. Her chest sent uncontrollable spasms: she felt like she was drowning. She lost almost all her senses, she felt a gentle breeze rocking her.
“No, not now.”
But her body was getting heavy, as if she was going to sleep, and her mind was becoming light as a feather. All these troubles were going to fly away. This was the last time she was losing consciousness.
“No, no way. I can make it.”
She gathered all her willpower, delved deep into her being, and fought with uncommon ferocity to emerge. She came back to the room. She smelled the faint, bitter odor of the evaporating ammonia. She felt her lungs catch fire. Her body cramped up. The unbearable pain in her left breast. Blood returned to her hand, and she cut through.
The rope detached, the knot loosened, and she could breathe again, what seemed like a layer of burning tar.
Richard flung the debris he held in his hand with a furious cry and plunged into his toolbox.
“YOU'RE GOING TO SEE WHAT YOU GET, YOU FUCKING WHORE, IF YOU DEPRIVE ME OF MY PLEASURE, I'LL HAVE FUN IN ANOTHER WAY!!”
She didn't wait to see what he would pull out next: she had already freed her ankles by cutting the string, and she was wiggling her wrists out of the loosened knot. As he pulled out a hacksaw and examined it with fury, she finished freeing herself and leapt to her feet.
She dove for the exit door, but blood rushed to her head, spinning the room around her: she fell. Cramps in her legs caused her agony, her brain temporarily out of service after the rush of blood.
“You...” Richard said, grabbing her arm with an iron grip.
Her head was still spinning, the hallway danced before her. She was about to vomit.
“I shouldn't have gotten angry,” he continued. “But I'm calm now. We'll start all over again, you and me.”
With her free hand, she grabbed the screwdriver at her feet, and plunged it into Richard's thigh.
He screamed in pain, and fell backward.
“I'm going to kill you this time!” he roared.
But she was already getting up: he didn't have time to limp toward her before she was already sprinting down the hallway. She clung from wall to wall, fighting with all her might not to fall. Richard pulled the tool from his leg with a moan of pain, and began to chase after her. Jordane didn't know where she was, but she followed the corridor. She turned left and miraculously came upon the main entrance. She threw herself at the door and burst out. The air was fresher, the pines beginning to block the sunlight: night was about to fall. She scanned for the pickup, but remembered hearing him hide it behind the sawmill. She turned around: he hadn't caught up yet, the open door only showed an empty corridor.
“What if he went to get his car?” she thought.
If she tried to reach the road, he would catch up and run her over without a problem: so she started running and plunged into the forest.
Jordane had been running for several minutes through the woods, avoiding roots and low branches as best she could. Every time she stopped, out of breath, it seemed she heard Richard screaming her name in the distance, or a branch cracking, so she resumed running.
She didn't know where she was, but she came across many dead or sickly pines, so she must still be around that damned cursed town. She was still in pain everywhere, especially under her shirt, which she had buttoned up a little earlier. She thought back to her dream earlier: it seemed she had remembered something, a detail she had on the tip of her tongue. She was about to say it just before she was pulled out by her torturer. What would have happened to her if she hadn't escaped? She would still be being tortured. Coming back from the realm of dreams over and over, as if condemned to relive the same terrible day until the end of time. Or at least, until her body gave out for good, and her photo really ended up on Duli's notice board. For a moment, she wondered if Richard was also a monster, but she knew that even if he was, it wasn't the kind of monster she thought. He was indeed human, she could feel it. But maybe Duli had a particular power of attraction, or even, that it was she who attracted monsters.
She remembered with what dexterity and fluidity he had acted in the locker room of that sawmill, and she was convinced she was not the first person he had taken care of. But maybe she had been the luckiest. In any case, she hoped she had been the last.
She now began to walk, tired of running, and kept an alert ear in case anything manifested behind her. Her hand touched her neck, and she brushed the burn from the rope with a grimace of pain. She buttoned her shirt a little higher to hide her wound, as if she still had someone to hide her condition from.
“Raphaël...” she thought.
She had ruined everything with him. She had lost her temper over nothing, likely driving him away for good. She wondered if she should call him back: she thought it was possible he wouldn't even answer. And then, he had chosen to leave. She was alone now.
Something caught her attention on the horizon: she looked into the distance and saw that the line of trees was thinning out before her. Yes, it seemed she had reached the edge of the forest. She quickened her pace, always on guard, and as she moved forward, the trees parted more on her path. The light of the late day first revealed itself timidly, then suddenly, when she reached the last tree.
Her mouth opened, and she stepped onto the concrete surface of the parking lot of the Palace of the Strange.
