Before I could get my bearings, the car dropped off the edge of the road and buried its front end in the deep drifts beneath the winter trees. I tried to rock it out, but the tires just whined uselessly. I couldn’t get any traction. The car was stuck.
I sat back in my seat breathing hard as the full dimensions of the situation became clear to me. It was cold, very cold. I hadn’t seen a building or a turnoff for miles. I had only about a quarter tank of gas. Maybe two hours of daylight left at most. If I stayed in the car, the engine would probably die right about the same time the light did. There was a real possibility I could freeze to death out here.
I decided to try to find help or shelter before nightfall. I stepped out of the car — and dropped into snow up to my knees. I stared around me into the blinding white. I saw nothing but the dim shadows of pine trees standing like sentinels watching me. I shouted for help. My voice was lost in the wind. Clutching my overcoat closed against the cold, I pushed forward until the snow grew more shallow and I could feel the road under my shoes. I followed the pavement as best I could up a small hill.
Just as I got to the top, something wonderful happened. A gust of wind pushed the snow aside like a curtain. The view cleared. There, nestled in an empty valley not a quarter of a mile away, stood the old Wilson mansion, the very place I was looking for.
I didn’t go back to the car for my luggage. I was afraid of getting lost. I stumbled down the hill until the road wound around to the Wilsons’ long driveway. Then I shoved my way through the driveway’s big drifts until I was at the front door. I pounded with the old iron knocker. No one came. Finally, shivering, I tried the knob. Luckily, the door opened. I spilled inside.
I shouted. No answer. It was clear the place was empty. I tried the lights. Nothing. The phones were out, too. There wasn’t much time before sunset. I had to find some supplies. Some matches; flashlights. Logs so I could start a fire.
Yet, I hesitated. I stood in the front room at the window, staring out at the falling snow. I watched the light grow dimmer and dimmer. Alone in that house with the night coming, all I could think about was that moment in the car just before I hit the final skid. That familiar voice lilting through the static on the radio. That song:
“I wait for you. I wait for you.”
4. Reunion
The day grew darker and darker at the windows. I made preparations to get through the night. I stacked some logs in the fireplace with old magazines for kindling. I rattled through every drawer I could find, searching for matches. Luckily, just as the last light was dying away, I opened a hall closet and found a flashlight on the top shelf. I followed the beam to the kitchen. But I stopped on the threshold.
I could see by the flashlight that the door leading from the kitchen down into the basement stood open, the cellar stairs disappearing into the blackness below. The open door unnerved me somehow. Alone in the dark house, my mind returned to that moment seven years ago when I saw Amanda’s corpse dangling above me.
I stepped decisively to the basement door and swung it shut.
I took a second to calm myself. Then I searched the kitchen. I looked in the small pantry. Went through some more drawers. Finally, the flashlight beam picked out a box of wooden matches on a small shelf over the stove. I was reaching up to take hold of the box when my hand froze in midair.
I heard something. A guitar was playing. Slowly, I turned around, brought the flashlight around. The basement door was standing open again. A voice wafted up to me from below, singing softly, sadly.
“I wait for you. I wait for you.”
I moved quickly back to the door, intending to shut it again. But just as I reached the top of the stairs, the singing stopped. The lightless basement fell silent. I stood there, staring down into the darkness. I felt a sour, burning fear rise in me as I realized I couldn’t just close the door, I couldn’t just walk away. I couldn’t spend the night in this house wondering what was down there, not knowing.
I had to look. I started down the stairs, holding tight to the flashlight. The basement dark seemed to crawl up my sides and close around me. I reached the bottom. Immediately, I guided the beam to the place where I’d seen Amanda hanging. There was nothing there.
No. Wait. There was. The light picked out the shape of a rope. My hand trembled as I raised the beam to see that one end was tied around the heating pipe. My breath caught as I lowered the beam.
The bottom of the rope was tied in a noose. But the noose hung empty.
I lowered the flashlight and saw Amanda come walking toward me out of the darkness.
She was just as I’d seen her last. Her body was horribly bloated, her face disfigured, the eyes bulging, the skin bluish-green. In terror, I stumbled backwards. And the flashlight slipped out of my hands. It fell to the floor and went out. The blackness was complete.
I gave a strangled cry. I knew she was still coming toward me, but I couldn’t see her. I couldn’t see anything. With my hands out in front of me, I stumbled in what I hoped was the direction of the stairs. I found them. I grabbed the banister. Started up. But in the darkness, I tripped. I went down on one knee.
Cold fingers wrapped themselves around my ankle.
I cried out and yanked myself free. I charged upward blindly, tripping, stumbling, but finally plunging through the doorway into the kitchen. I slammed the basement door behind me and looked desperately this way and that, lost in the darkness. I had to get back to the stove. To the matches on the shelf. I started moving — and, as I did, I heard her again. Through the basement door. Singing softly.
“I wait for you. I wait for you.”
Her voice was growing louder as she slowly climbed the stairs.
I staggered across the kitchen. Bumped into the stove. Reached up, feeling for the box of matches. There it was. I grabbed it. I fumbled for a match, concentrating so hard that I barely noticed that the singing had stopped, that the darkness had grown silent again. I brought out a match. I struck it against the side of the box.
The flame flared and she was standing right in front of me, reaching for me with those dead hands.
I screamed and dropped the matches. Hurled myself headlong away from her. By sheer good luck, I bumped into the edge of the pantry doorway. I rolled off into the pantry itself and shut the door fast. My hand still clutching the knob, I braced my shoulder against the door. The knob turned in my hand. I could feel her trying to push the door inward.
I held it shut.
5. I Wait For You
All night long, I heard her at the pantry door. Sometimes she rattled the knob, trying to get in. Sometimes she knocked softly or called my name in a laughing, teasing voice, trying to coax me out. I tried bracing my back against the door, covering my ears with my hands, but I still heard her. I hugged my knees to myself, trembling. It was enough to drive me mad.
I knew what she wanted. Revenge. She’d been waiting for it for seven years. She would never forgive me for what I’d done. Not just getting her pregnant. Refusing to marry her, refusing to sacrifice my future, my whole life, to take care of her and a child. Not just for shouting at her so that she stormed off, crying.
I think she would’ve forgiven me for all that if I hadn’t killed her.
But what else could I do? She never would have gotten an abortion. She would’ve had the child and used it against me. Forced me to come up with child support. Ruined any chance I had to be free, to be a success. I mean, deep down, Amanda was a very vindictive person. Well, that was obvious, wasn’t it? Look how long she’d waited to get back at me, nursing her bitterness all the while.