Stephenie could see the woman's brain just as clearly as she could count the bone fragments lying on top of it. And still, she held her nausea at bay. She held it because she didn't want to vomit on the girl. She didn't dare move, fearing her stomach would revolt against such action, leading her into a bought of illness that would last fifteen minutes or more.
She closed her eyes and squeezed them tight.
When she opened them nothing had changed. She was getting a real close look at this waitress named Susan, whose eyes were wide open, shockingly open, dreadfully open. Her face held an expression of terror so absolute she seemed to have died of fright before the killing blow had been able to claim her.
In time, Stephenie lifted herself to an upright position.
There was a puddle of blood around Susan's head and tiny footprints were in it. Tinyfootprints. Carrie'sfootprints.
"Where's Carrie?" she whispered.
Then she closed her eyes, telling herself she was trapped inside a dream, a terribledream----a nightmare in fact. More than anything else, that's what she wanted to believe. Otherwise she'd need to face the fact that she was standing in a horrific bloodbath and her five-year-old daughter was suddenly gone.
4
The scene was tranquil. Everything was calm. The customers were eating and socializing, the staff was working and everyone was happy. There was no blood on the walls, no bodies slumped over in the booths, no body parts lying amputated on the floor. There was nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing disturbing. Nothing to suggest there was a problem big enough to have people shaking their heads in disbelief. It was a diner, just a simple diner with no strings attached. It had stools with red seat covers, which were bolted to the floor in front of the counter. It had booths with divisional walls that were a little more than waist high, giving privacy but not too muchprivacy. It had cheap paintings on the walls between the dark windows. Florescent lights buzzed in the ceiling and ceiling fans spun below. It was the type of place that gets labeled a greasy spoon and often times deserves the label. It smelled like coffee, toast and bacon. The smell alone was enough to get your stomach rumbling and your waistline expanding.
Stephenie felt a tug on her finger. She heard a voice. It was a child's voice, her daughter's voice.
The voice said, "Mom?"
Sitting inside a booth in the center of the diner was a woman named Angela Mezzo. She was a beautiful Italian lady with dark hair and an exotic appearance. Her lips were full and her cheekbones were high. She was roughly the same age as Stephenie, twenty-nine, maybe thirty. But unlike Stephenie her youthful exterior was no longer present. Not in a bad way, in a good way. She had womanly features that weren't restricted to the curves of her body, but on her face too. In contrast, Stephenie's appearance suggested that she might carry her inner-girl around with her until the day she died.
Angela lifted a coffee mug from the table with delicate, manicured hands. She swallowed a sip of coffee without making a sound.
The mug had a yellow happy face painted on the side. It was the same yellow happy face that had been produced and reproduced a hundred million times and can be found on cups and glasses in dollar stores around the world.
Stephenie felt another tug on her finger. She heard the voice again: "Mom?"
Angela sat the mug on the table in front of her. She started to grin, but the grin sat on her face wrong somehow, like it didn't belong there, like it belonged somewhere else.
Stephenie's eyes narrowed. She had seen that smile before but didn't know where.
Angela's grin thickened, growing hard across her features like old gravy left forgotten on the stove.
Now Stephenie knew.
The smile was lifted from her late husband Hal. It was the same smile he made in her dreams, in her nightmares. Not when he was falling, but the moment before he hit the sign that said DANGER and his body was severed at the waist. But why was Hal's smile on Angela's face? It had to be a coincidence.
Angela began changing. Her eyes turned blacker than oil and her mouth crept open like a squeaky door in a haunted house. Her head tilted, hair swooped in front of her face and her skin became pale. For a moment Stephenie thought she might crumble into dust.
Then came a third tug on her finger.
The tug seemed more urgent this time, but still, it was gentle. A child's hand was wrapped around her finger and Stephenie knew it was Carrie's hand, which was good news indeed because if Carrie was pulling her finger Stephenie knew exactly where the girl was hiding and there would be nothing more to worry about, nothing at all. Nothing except the cold hard fact that a room full of strangers was chopped into a million pieces and somebody was responsible. Strangers don't kill themselves when they step out for a bite to eat----no way, no chance, no how.
But the room wasn'tfilled with dead people. The room was just the way you'd expect it to be: the staff were bustling about and the customers were enjoying their meals.
Except for Angela Mezzo.
Angela was sitting at the table with her happy face mug in front. Her eyes were black and her mouth hung open like someone had snagged it with a hook on a string and given the string a good yank.
Now she was about to say something.
Stephenie didn't want to hear it, not a single word. Once Angela started talking everything would be so bad she'd want to scream.
She felt another tug on her finger. Then the hand slipped away and that was the end of it. The finger tugging was over. If Carrie had been there she was gone now. She was gone to wherever she may be.
Stephenie was alone. Alone in the room with the cheerful people that didn't notice Angela's eyes had turned black and the color was draining from her skin. She was alone in the room with a ghoul that was opening her mouth so horrifically wide that a rat could crawl from her throat with room to spare.
Now Angela did speak. She did. And when she spoke it wasn't a woman's voice Stephenie heard. It was a child's voice. It was Carrie's voice. Carrie's voice was creeping free of that cavernous void that needed to be shut.
The voice said, "Mom?"
And Stephenie opened her eyes.
5
Angela Mezzo was indeed dead. Her lifeless body was lying awkwardly across the table. Her fingers were wrapped around the coffee mug like she was about to take a drink. The yellow happy face on the mug smiled in spite of the carnage around it.
Stephenie lifted her stare from Angela, but everywhere she looked there was a new horror waiting to be seen. The restaurant was a killing box, simple as that. It was a killing box that had been exhaustively used.
She said, "Carrie?" Her voice sounded weak and shrouded in terror. "Where are you?"
She stepped forward. Her foot brushed against Susan's corpse. A spike of fear and panic gripped her with such strength she thought she'd faint. She turned quickly and reached for the door. Her foot slipped in the blood, not enough to knock her off balance; just enough to let her know what she was standing in. The walls seemed nearer; the ceiling seemed lower.
She pushed on the glass. The door opened, the bells sang and out she went.
She was outside.
Yes. Outside. Outside was good. The clean air and the open sky eased the claustrophobic feeling that had clutched her so tightly a moment before. She put both hands on her knees and breathed hard, like she had gone running. Her throat felt dry now, the sweat on her neck gave her a little chill.