The Girl Next Door (18 page)

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Authors: Jack Ketchum

Tags: #Horror, #Fiction

BOOK: The Girl Next Door
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Meg’s hair.
A small tuft of pale blond-orange down in which droplets of sweat gleamed.
I saw tiny freckles on her upper thighs.
I saw the small fold of flesh half hidden between her legs.
I studied her. Her breasts. How would they feel to touch?
Her flesh was unimaginable to me. The hair between her legs. I knew it would be soft. Softer than mine. I wanted to touch her. Her body would be hot. It trembled uncontrollably.
Her belly, her thighs, her strong pale white ass.
The stew of sex ripened, thickened in me.
The room reeked of sex.
I felt a hard weight between my legs. I moved forward, fascinated. I stepped past Susan. I saw Woofer’s face, pale and bloodless as he watched. I saw Willie’s eyes riveted to that tuft of down.
Meg had stopped crying now.
I turned to glance at Ruth. And she’d moved forward too, was standing inside the doorway now. I saw her left hand move against her right breast, the fingers gently closing, and then fall away.
Donny knelt beneath her, looking up.
“Confess,” he said.
Her body began to spasm.
I could smell her sweat.
She nodded. She had to nod.
It was surrender.
“Get the ropes,” he said to Willie.
Willie went to the table and untied the ropes, let out some slack until her feet came down flat on the bare cement floor, then tied them off again.
Her head fell forward with relief.
Donny stood up and removed the gag. I realized it was Ruth’s yellow kerchief. Then she opened her mouth and he pulled out the rag they’d wadded up and stuffed in there. He threw the rag on the floor and put the kerchief in the back pocket of his jeans. A corner hung out slightly. For a moment he looked like a farmer.
“Could you . . . ? My arms . . .” she said. “My shoulders . . . they hurt.”
“No,” said Donny. “That’s it. That’s all you get.”
“Confess,” said Woofer.
“Tell us how you play with yourself,” said Willie. “I bet you put your finger in, doncha?”
“No. Tell us about the syph.” Woofer laughed.
“Yeah, the clap,” said Willie, grinning.
“Cry,” said Woofer.
“I already did cry,” said Meg. And you could see she’d got a little bit of the old tough defiance back now that she wasn’t hurting quite so much anymore.
Woofer just shrugged. “So cry again,” he said.
Meg said nothing.
I noticed that her nipples had gone softer now, a smooth silky-looking shiny pink.
God! She was beautiful.
It was as though she read my mind.
“Is David here?” she said.
Willie and Donny looked at me. I couldn’t answer.
“He’s here,” said Willie.
“David . . .” she said. But then I guess she couldn’t finish. She didn’t need to, though. I knew by the way she said it.
She didn’t want me there.
I knew why too. And knowing why shamed me just as she’d shamed me before. But I couldn’t leave. The others were there. Besides, I didn’t want to. I wanted to see. I needed to see. Shame looked square in the face of desire and looked away again.
“And Susan?”
“Yeah. Her too,” said Donny.
“Oh God.”
“Screw that,” said Woofer. “Who cares about Susan? Where’s the confession?”
And now Meg sounded weary and adult. “Confession’s stupid,” she said. “There’s no confession.”
It stopped us.
“We could haul you right on up again,” said Willie.
“I know that.”
“We could
whip
you,” said Woofer.
Meg shook her head. “Please. Just leave me alone. Leave me be. There’s no confession.”
And the thing was that nobody really expected that.
For a moment we all just stood around waiting for somebody to say something, something that would convince her to play The Game the way it was supposed to be played. Or force her. Or maybe for Willie to haul her back again like he’d said. Anything that would keep it going further.
But in just those few moments something was gone. To get it back we’d have to start all over again. I think we all knew it. The sweet heady feeling of danger had suddenly slipped away. It had gone as soon as she started talking.
That was the key.
Talking, it was Meg again. Not some beautiful naked victim, but Meg. A person with a mind, a voice to express her mind, and maybe even rights of her own.
Taking the gag off was a mistake.
It left us feeling sullen and angry and frustrated. So we stood there.
It was Ruth who broke the silence.
“We could do that,” she said.
“Do what?” asked Willie.
“Do what she says. Leave her alone. Let her think about it awhile. That seems fine to me.”
We thought about it.
“Yeah,” said Woofer. “Leave her alone. In the dark. Just
banging
there.”
It was one way, I thought, to start over.
Willie shrugged.
Donny looked at Meg. I could see he didn’t want to leave. He looked at her hard.
He raised his hand. Slowly, hesitantly, he moved it toward her breasts.
And suddenly it was like I was part of him. I could feel my own hand there, the fingers nearly touching her. I could almost feel the slick moist heat of her skin.
“Unh-unh,” said Ruth.
“No.”
Donny looked at her. Then he stopped. Just inches from her breast.
I took a breath.
“Don’t you touch that girl,” said Ruth. “I don’t want any of you touching her.”
He dropped his hand.
“Girl like her,” said Ruth, “isn’t even clean. You keep your hands off her. You hear?”
We heard.
“Yeah, Ma,” Donny said.
She turned to go. She stomped out her cigarette butt on the floor and waved to us. “C’mon,” she said. “But first you better gag her again.”
I looked at Donny, who was looking at the rag on the floor.
“It’s dirty,” he said.
“Not that dirty,” said Ruth. “I don’t want her screaming at us all night. Put it in.”
Then she turned to Meg.
“You want to think about one thing, girl,” she said. “Well, two things exactly. First that it could be your little sister and not you hanging there. And second that
I know
some of the things you’ve done wrong. And I’m interested to hear them. So maybe this confessing isn’t such a kid’s game after all. I can hear it from the one of you or I can hear it from the other. You think about that,” she said, and turned and walked away.
We listened to her climb the stairs.
Donny gagged her.
He could have touched her then but he didn’t.
It was like Ruth was still in the room, watching. A presence that was a whole lot more than the lingering smell of her smoke in the air yet just as insubstantial. Like Ruth was a ghost who haunted us, her sons and me. Who’d haunt us forever if we pushed or disobeyed her.
And I think I realized then the sharp razor edge she’d honed to her permission.
The show was Ruth’s and Ruth’s only.
The Game was nonexistent.
And by that reckoning it was not just Meg but all of us stripped and naked, hanging there.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Lying in bed, we were haunted by Meg. We couldn’t sleep.
Time would pass in total silence in the warm dark and then somebody’d say something, how she looked when Willie took the last book away, what it must feel like to stand there so long with your hands tied over your head, whether it hurt, what it was like to finally see a girl’s naked body, and we’d talk about that a while until moments later we got quiet again as each of us wrapped himself up in his own little cocoon of thought and dreams.
But there was only one object to these dreams. Meg. Meg as we’d left her.
And finally we had to see her again.
Donny’d no sooner suggested it than we saw the risks involved. Ruth had told us to leave her alone.
The house was small and sounds carried, and Ruth slept one thin door away, in Susan’s room—
was Susan lying awake like us? thinking of her sister?—
directly above the shelter. If Ruth awoke and caught us the unthinkable might happen—she might exclude us all in the future.
We already knew there’d be a future.
But the images we remembered were too strong. It was almost as though we needed confirmation to believe we’d really been there. Meg’s nudity and accessibility were like a siren’s song. They absolutely beckoned.
We had to risk it.
 
The night was moonless, black.
Donny and I climbed off the top bunks. Willie and Woofer slid out beneath.
Ruth’s door was closed.
We tiptoed past. For once Woofer resisted the urge to giggle.
Willie lifted one of the flashlights off the kitchen table and Donny eased open the cellar door.
The stairs squeaked. There was nothing to do about it except pray and hope for luck.
The shelter door squeaked too but not so badly. We opened it and went inside, standing barefoot on the cold concrete floor the same as she was—and there was Meg, exactly as we remembered as though no time at all had passed, exactly as we’d pictured her.
Well, not quite.
Her hands were white, splotched with red and blue. And even in the flashlight’s thin uneven light you could see how pale her body was. She was all gooseflesh, nipples puckered up brown and tight.
She heard us come in and made a soft whiny sound.
“Quiet,” whispered Donny.
She obeyed.
We watched her. It was like standing in front of some sort of shrine—or like watching some strange exotic animal in a zoo.
Like both at once.
 
And I wonder now if anything would have been different had she not been so pretty, had her body not been young and healthy and strong but ugly, fat, flabby. Possibly not. Possibly it would have happened anyway. The inevitable punishment of the outsider.
But it seems to me more likely that it was precisely
because
she was beautiful and strong, and we were not, that Ruth and the rest of us had done this to her. To make a sort of judgment on that beauty, on what it meant and didn’t mean to us.
 
“I bet she’d like some water,” said Woofer.
She shook her head.
Yes.
Oh yes please.
“If we give her water we got to take off the gag,” said Willie.
“So what? She won’t make noise.”
He stepped forward.
“You won’t make any noise, will ya, Meg? We can’t wake Mom.”
No. She shook her head firmly side to side. You could tell she wanted that water a lot.
“You trust her?” Willie said.
Donny shrugged. “If she makes any noise then she gets in trouble too. She’s not stupid. So give it to her. Why not?”
“I’ll get it,” said Woofer.
There was a sink beside the washer/dryer. Woofer turned it on and we could hear it lightly running behind us. He was being unusually quiet about it.
Unusually nice, too, for Woofer.
Willie untied the gag just as he’d done earlier and pulled the dirty wad of rag out of her mouth. She moaned and began to work her jaw side to side.
Woofer came back with an old glass fruit jar full of water.
“I found it by the paint cans,” he said. “It don’t smell too bad.”
Donny took it from him and tilted it to Meg’s lips. She drank hungrily, making small glad noises in her throat every time she swallowed. She drained the jar in no time.
“Oh God,” she said. “Oh God. Thank you.”
And it was a weird feeling. Like everything was forgiven. Like she was really
grateful
to us.
It was amazing in a way. That just one jar of water could do that.
I thought again how helpless she was.
And I wondered if the others were feeling what I was feeling—this overwhelming, almost dizzying need to touch her. To put my hands on her. To see exactly what she
felt like.
Breasts, buttocks, thighs. That blond-red curly tuft between her legs.

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