I pulled into the driveway sometime between eight and nine o’clock Thursday night. The rain had been falling in sheets for the last few hours, and by the time I took the keys from the ignition I was exhausted from squinting at the road through my windshield wipers. I looked up at the familiar sign hanging down off the large, sky blue house: Seagull’s Den. I had made it. I was back in the Outer Banks.
I left everything in the car, figuring the cool night would keep most of the groceries until the morning, and ran up to the house through the pouring rain. I unlocked the door and stepped into the dark foyer, which Sarah loved to call the Sand Room, and shed my wet fleece and shoes. The house was dark and smelled stale, like the air was from last September. It probably was. I wandered through the lower levels, flicking on lights and making sure no one had made a home of our place in the off-season, and eventually I came to the top floor, and the master bedroom, which looked exactly as we had left it. I checked my phone for the early-March temperature in Avon, North Carolina: thirty eight degrees. What the hell, I thought to myself, opening up the windows on the top floor. Sarah’s not here to complain. It must have been a little after midnight, and I fell asleep the minute my head hit the pillow.
I woke the next morning with the rejuvenating feeling of having slept outdoors. I peeled back the triple layer of blankets, pulled down the hood of my sweatshirt and hobbled over to the bathroom mirror. My face was red, windburned from the cold, fresh air from the night before, but the room smelled great and the stale feeling was gone. I splashed some water on my face, shut all the windows, and went out to the kitchen for some coffee and the news.
Hours passed on the couch, and by noon I had watched a few run throughs of the morning show and had finished a pot and a half of coffee. I had a long list of things that needed to get done around the house, but the day had warmed considerably and only the groceries were urgent, so I went down to the car and unpacked. I hadn’t really looked through the coolers, that had been Sarah’s job, but I saw now that she had packed mostly perishable foods: Greek yogurt, fruit, hummus, milk. It was going to be just me, alone in the house for a week, I thought. What the hell was I going to do with all this food? I tossed it all in the downstairs refrigerator and that was the last I thought of it. Fuck her. If she’s not going to come down here with me then her food would go to waste. I had picked up a few packs of hot dogs and bacon on the drive down to the house. I wasn’t going to go hungry.
A few of those hotdogs and a couple of beers later, I was sitting on the deck, looking out over the Atlantic. The sun was already low in the sky, and the dunes were still speckled with tiny craters from the rain, but the view was gorgeous, and I sat there for a few hours among the ocean chatter. “I don’t love you!” The sting of those words returned each time I looked to my left and saw the empty chair beside me. There had been no warning, no gradual decay. One day we were both packing for our spring trip to the beach, the next she was packing her things for good.
By six, the sun was low on the horizon, and when I reached into my case of beer I came up empty. It didn’t feel like I’d had twelve beers, but my legs had been immobile for the large part of the afternoon, and when I stood to go inside it hit me. I was pretty drunk. I was also hungry, but the thought of eating another plate of hot dogs made me feel ill, so I decided to stumble across the street to the Starboard Inn for dinner and something stronger to drink.
“Let me get the Big Kahuna burger with fries and a double jack and coke.” The words felt slurred coming out of my mouth, but the bartender walked off without batting an eye. I scanned up and down the bar, which was mostly empty save for a few guys eating dinner by themselves, and one larger party of girls down at the far end of the bar. “Biology students,” the bartender said as he set down my drink. “Come down to take samples all winter. In here pretty much every night. You here for fishin’?” I mumbled something in reply and took a gulp of my drink. He made them strong. “Let me get another one of these while I have you,” I said, and downed the rest of it. Fuck Sarah, I thought, looking down the end of the bar. Whiskey made me angry.
I woke up the next morning on my couch, head under one of the cushions to keep out the sunlight. My mind felt like a whiteboard that had been wiped clean and then pounded with a sledgehammer. I checked my phone. A little past six. I knew from experience there was no way I was going to sleep anymore, so I stood up slowly to make a pot of coffee. I could hear the blood pumping through my temples and my boxers were stuck to the insides of my thighs, slick with sweat. I was a wreck.
I took a tall mug with me as I walked down the street, towards the beach. From the lack of cars, it looked like I was the only one there: Gone Swimming, Avon Darling and Pirate’s Cove were still shuttered for the winter. I stumbled down the narrow access path and over the dunes to the deserted beach. It must have been in the high fifties, and the sun was still low in the sky, and all I could think was how much I needed to go for a swim. I deserved to be dunked in the freezing cold water, I thought. I’m a drunken loser. I stripped down to my boxers and ran all the way into the surf like a child. Like my children should have been doing.
The freezing saltwater jarred something loose in my mind, and it hit me. There had been a fight last night at the bar. Why did it start? An image flickered across my mind: me, standing next to the biology students at the bar. God, what was I saying? Probably crying about my sad life. Another flash, this time of me following a girl out to the parking lot. She must have invited me over, then things just didn’t work out. I felt a wave of nausea coming over me. I couldn’t remember much more of the night, but had the feeling I had grabbed someone’s arm, pulled on it. Hard.
I ended up falling asleep in the sand, and by the time I made it back to the house it was early afternoon. The door was unlocked, so I let myself in, grabbed a few beers from the downstairs refrigerator and headed back to my chair on the deck. I was one day into my trip and already felt like I was in the madhouse.
On my way past the bedroom, something caught my eye. A floral pattern at the foot of the bed. I walked over and picked it up. Pink cotton panties. My stomach turned as I thought of Sarah, and the way her back used to arch as she slipped off her jeans. Were these even hers? My temples ached. Had I brought someone home? It seemed highly improbable I would have been able to bring a girl back with me, let alone be coherent enough for anything to happen. And when did she leave? I had no memory of anyone else in bed with me, but I couldn’t shake the sequence I had been running through my head all morning: heated argument at the bar, stumbling after one of the girls, grabbing someone. Was it her? I tried to replay the night in my mind but remembered nothing, so I tossed the underwear in the trash and went to drink my beers out on the porch.
I woke up as the sun was setting, shivering in the grey sweatsuit I was wearing. The full weight of my hangover crashed over me. I was starving at this point, and considered for a minute going back to the Starboard for dinner, and maybe getting an explanation of what happened, but I couldn’t risk seeing any of the other people from the night before. So I walked inside to take stock of my own food situation: a pack of bacon in the refrigerator and a family sized bag of tortilla chips. I had no memory of eating the rest of the hotdogs after getting home, but must have, because an entire pack of eight were gone. I grabbed the bag of chips and took it back to the couch. I had no interest in waiting around for bacon to cook, even if the grease would do me good. I downed a couple more beers and watched old war movies until the early hours of the morning, then went to bed.
I woke up on Sunday feeling much better. Two days post blackout. Usually it took a full two days to purge the sweats and shame from my body, and I was ready to start making some more of my time down at the beach. I thought briefly about bringing out my surfboard, but decided the dead of March, with no one else around, was not the time to try getting back up on a wave. It would have to wait until the summer. I chose a long walk on the beach instead, and threw on an old pair of jeans and the grey hoodie from the night before.
When I walked out of the bedroom I was hit with a cold blast of air. The sliding door to the deck was open. I walked over and shut it, thinking back to the previous night. How did I leave that wide open? I thought. I hadn’t even been outside after dinner, and I was sure I would have noticed the cold if the door had been open while I was watching TV. Had someone been in the house?
I pushed the thought from my mind. I was here alone. This whole strip of coastline was deserted from September to June. I shook my head and walked downstairs, grabbing a beer on my way out. I scanned through Sarah’s food, looking for something I could eat for dinner. Celery and hummus. What a treat. I needed to go to the store.
I walked down the street and out to the main road. Still not one other sign of human life. I walked south, in the opposite direction of the Starboard, towards the old gas station at the far end of Avon. The sun was up, and by the time I jingled my way through the front door I was sweating in my jeans. “Beautiful day, ain’t it?” I looked left towards the front counter at Ned, the owner, and nodded. “Mhm, sure is,” I said, and made my way to the chip aisle to grab some more tortilla chips and some dip.
By the time I had looped my way through the tiny store, I had pretty much cleaned Ned out: two packs of hot dogs, four bags of chips, and two cases of beer. As I stacked everything on the register, Ned squinted at me. “You in from out of town?” he asked. I nodded. “You must be the only soul alive that’s sleepin’ in Avon tonight.” He chuckled and scratched at his patchy facial hair. “You all alone out here, boy.”
The walk home took a lot longer with all of my supplies, so when I made it back I decided to celebrate the early evening with some beers and grilled hotdogs. I couldn’t remember the last time we had used the grill, and by the time I had cleaned it, fixed the igniter and actually eaten dinner, it was almost eight o’clock. The day was gone. I can’t live down here, I thought. I needed to fix things with Sarah. Or kick her out of my fucking house.
I was still cursing her out in the kitchen as I cleaned up dinner and cracked another beer. There had to be another guy. How else could she decide, after nine years of marriage, she didn’t love me? I needed Sarah to feel my pain, so I grabbed one of her plates and hurled it across the room, where it landed safely on the couch. FUCK! I was seeing red now, and was ready to put a chair through the window when I saw it out of the corner of my eye: the pink floral panties. They were sitting in the middle of the floor, a few feet away from the trash can. I snapped out of my rage. I had thrown them out when I found them two nights ago, and they should have been buried under a half dozen beer cans and chips bags. Now they were laying on the floor. I walked over and picked them up, turning them in my hands for the first time. There was a big, dark brown stain in the crotch area that I didn’t remember. I told myself I wasn’t going to smell it, wasn’t going to be that guy, but I did. It smelled like blood.
I backed out of the kitchen and sat on the couch. Had someone been in here last night? Were they still here? I had spent all my time on the top floor, and hadn’t so much as looked into the other five bedrooms. Was there somebody living here? I hesitated on the couch for what felt like ten minutes, the underwear dangling from my hand, but I eventually decided to do a walkthrough of the house. I told myself that they wouldn’t be stupid enough to stay put while I was awake.
I started in my room, just to be sure. The bathroom was empty, there was nothing under the bed, and the only thing in the closet was the formal clothes Sarah had insisted on leaving down here. On the floor below, I did similar checks of the various bedrooms: the bunk room where the boys had slept when they were younger, the two rooms where they slept now, the two guest rooms that had never really held any guests. All were empty. I went down to the bottom level, checked around the pool table and in the laundry room. Nothing. I grabbed another case of beer and brought it back upstairs.
At the top of the landing, I felt it. A cool, ocean breeze. Whoever was in the house had somehow escaped while I was searching for them below. I dropped the open case of beers and heard them roll one by one down the stairs. I stood there, frozen, between the open deck door and the exit three stories below. I patted the front of my jeans, but didn’t feel my phone. Where had I left it? Some criminal was on the loose and the police needed to know. I ran to the coffee table. No phone. I ripped apart the couch, checked the kitchen, inside the refrigerator, and all over the bedroom. No phone. I pushed open the bathroom door to check the sink and felt my heart stop.
WE KNOW WHAT YOU DID
The message on the mirror was fresh, and I didn’t need to touch the bright red smear to know how it was written. I turned towards the toilet and threw up all over the back wall of the bathroom. I looked back towards the warning and saw what had really made me sick in the first place: the bloody underwear hanging from the corner of the mirror. This was no routine break-in. Someone was trying to punish me. Punish me for whatever had happened Friday night.
The memory flashed again: grabbing her arm. Was that all I’d done? Who was that girl? I shut the bedroom door and sat down on the far side of the room, putting the bed between me and the door. My phone had most likely been stolen, so there would be no help coming. Would have to get out of this hellhole on my own.
I sat there, wracking my brain for more details of that night, for a couple of hours. I could feel them, my tormentors, wandering through the barren house. Could feel them running their hands along the smooth mahogany pool table, sitting on the old bunk beds, hovering outside my bedroom door. A few times I felt like shouting, communicating with them somehow, but my voice was gone. I couldn’t even force a whisper.
Sometime past midnight, I let myself think about the reality of the situation. They were here to kill me. I had seen all the movies, and nobody would go through this much trouble to send a message if the final lesson wasn’t death. I needed to get out of there. I stood slowly and peered out the bedroom window. It was a straight drop down, three stories to the bottom. Even if I made it down alive, my broken legs would leave me at their mercy. The street was so empty that they could probably do it right there if they wanted, out for the world to see.
I considered my other options. I could run downstairs, through the house, and get to the street that way, or I could go outside and get down on the decks. Either way, I would have to get in my car and get out of there quickly enough that they couldn’t stop me. What if someone was by my car? Or what if it wouldn’t run for some reason? Maybe they had slashed my tires, or drained all the gas. I started to think through the different possibilities when it dawned on me. I needed car keys. I checked the nightstand where I kept my keys and wallet: empty. I had no way of getting out of there. I was going to have to run.
I decided to go the balcony route. At least I could jump if things got bad. I ripped open the bedroom door, and tore across the room to the deck. I was in the clear. I leapt down the stairs, one flight at a time, and made it to my car. Everything looked fine, but I still had no keys, so I sprinted off down the street in search of help.
I was passing by the Starboard when a truck pulled up next to me. “You need help, son?” I looked up and saw an old woman grinning back. “Yes! Please call the police, I’ve been-“
“Well alright, I’ll give ‘em a call. Hop in the truck if you’d like.” She slid the passenger door open and gestured to the seat next to her. “Sorry it’s so messy.”
I got in the truck and shut the door. This had to be safer than being out in the open. I leaned forward, head in hands, and heard the lady dialing. “Well sure, I’m sure. There’s this guy here says he needs you.” I wanted to grab the phone and explain what was happening, but was afraid nothing would come out. “We’ll meet at the Piggly Wiggly, then.”
I opened my eyes and looked at the truck’s cab for the first time. The floor was covered in old newspaper and paint brushes. “Wh-what are you doing out here so late?” I asked. My voice scraped the back of my throat on its way out. “Oh, jus’ had some business up in Kitty Hawk, now headin’ back to Buxton.” I froze. What kind of business would have this old woman driving home past midnight on a Sunday? I felt my pulse start to quicken. “Where did you say we were going?” I placed my hand on the door handle, ready to jump, but she pointed a little ways up at a faintly lit pig sign. “Piggly Wiggly. Sheriff’ll be there.”
We pulled into the lot and the sheriff’s car was already there, the sheriff leaning up against the trunk. The man was young, and even in the dark I could tell he was at least twenty years younger than I’d expected. He was tall and slim with a wide brimmed park ranger hat pulled low over his face. I swung open the door before we could pull to a stop, muttered a quick thank you to the woman and jogged over to the sheriff, who was squinting at me, arms crossed.
“How can I help ya?” My palm was sweaty as he grabbed it and shook it violently.
“There are these guys – these guys in my house. They wrote in blood on my mirror. They’re harassing me.” I didn’t know what else to say. “They stole my phone, my wallet, my car keys.”
The sheriff stood quietly for a moment, then turned and opened the passenger door, gesturing me to get in. “Let’s go for a ride then,” he said. “Figure all this out.” I got in.
The one mile drive dragged for what felt like half an hour. Both of us were silent, and I could hear my ragged breathing over the crackle of his police radio. In. Out. In. Out. Sarah had always done these breathing exercises before bed, so she could “find her breath” after a long day, and I’d always laughed at her. I’ve found my breath, Sarah, I thought. Even the damn sheriff had found my breath.
We pulled up behind my car and got out. “Show me the problem, sir,” the sheriff said, motioning me forward, into the house. I hesitated. “Do you mind, uh… Going first?” I asked him. “They might still be there.”
He nodded back. “Sure thing partner.” He walked up to the door and tried the handle. It was locked. “Did they lock up when they left?” I detected a faint smile as he asked. I shook my head, but I really didn’t know. “Let’s try to deck, where I ran out.” We walked around the side of the house and climbed the stairs to the third floor. The door was wide open, just like I left it. The sheriff stepped gingerly inside.
“Ok, sir, can you please guide me through the house? Where were the-“ he paused. “That’s odd,” he said, pointed towards the coffee table. “Is that your phone?” I looked where he was pointing. It was my phone, same case and everything. “I think so,” I said, “but that was not there this morning, I swear.” I walked over and picked it up.
“Well, that’s pretty strange, don’t you think?” The sheriff looked at me, puzzled. “Can you try to locate your keys and wallet?” I ran to the bedroom and pulled open the nightstand, knowing what I would find, and sure enough: keys and wallet. I felt faint. A shout came from the other room: “they in there?” Yea, they were in here, I thought. My hands started to shake as I turned towards the bathroom. I didn’t think I could handle seeing the message again, but I also knew I had to see it, needed some confirmation that the last few days had been real.
I pushed open the door and collapsed to my feet. “Well I’ll be damned,” the sheriff said behind me. The mirror was spotless, the underwear gone, and my vomit had been cleaned up. “Son, I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing here,” he began, “but the Cape Hatteras Sheriff Department is a lean squad, particularly this time of year, and…”
I could barely focus as he rambled on behind me. The message was gone. My things were back in the house and they had locked up as they were heading out. Was any of this really happening? What kind of sick people would go through the trouble to mess with me like this? What had I done?
“… if there’s nothing else, sir, then might I suggest you headin’ on home?” I felt a boot nudge me out of my thoughts. “This place gets mighty lonely this time of year, not always best for vacationers.” I nodded, vacantly. He was right. I was getting out of this place.
I apologized feebly for wasting the sheriff’s time, and asked him to stay while I packed up. We did one last walkthrough of the house to confirm it was empty, and then I threw all the groceries back in the car. I locked up the house, we shook hands, and then both pulled out of the driveway. I sighed as I sped off, ready to put hundreds of miles between myself and that terrible place.
On the ride back north, I stopped at a drive-thru for a quick dinner. I was still too afraid to leave the security of my car, so I peed in an empty bottle while I waited to pull around to the window. As I tossed it under the passenger seat, my heart stopped cold. The floral pattern. I pulled at the corner of fabric sticking out from under the seat, and saw that the underwear were stapled to a folded piece of paper. My hands were shaking as I opened it to a familiar smear of red:
YOU CAN’T ESCAPE