Der Schädelring: Thriller (German Edition)

long, long fingers—
    She twisted the tap angrily. Tears filled her eyes. Her lip quivered.
    It owned her.
    Maybe it—the fear, the darkness, The Creep—wouldn't take her this morning, but she knew it was out there.
    No, not out there. In here .
    In her head.
    The worst place of all. This was an inside job all the way. The monster rummaged in the rooms of her mind, hid in cramped closets, staked out the shadowed corners of her psyche. What scared her most was the knowledge that she had built that monster herself, bit by bit, sewn it from scraps of memory and the threads of what-if, imagined it to life. The cellar of her head-house was a Frankenstein laboratory for bringing strange creatures to life.
    No monster had spread those blocks on her coffee table, had spelled out that name. Because everybody knew that monsters weren't real. Especially Dr. Forrest.
    She started the coffee maker. Her therapist in Memphis told her to lay off the caffeine. Dr. Lance Danner. Lance. Freud could have had a field day with that name. Sometimes a cigar was just a cigar and a lance was just a lance.
    Dr. Danner also told her that, although they had been progressing in the therapy, a move was probably a good thing for her. He'd encouraged her to take the job in Elkwood, depressurize, embrace a rural lifestyle. Dr. Danner even made a referral to a doctor here that Julia felt comfortable with, touting it as “a continuum of care.” Mitchell had been against her leaving, but his possessiveness had only made Julia more determined. If she was ever going to show him she was a big girl, now was the time.
    Big girls don’t cry, though.
    Julia wiped away her tears with the back of her hand. She was glad she didn't wear make-up, because the streaks would show. Not that she cared much what the handyman thought of her. She definitely wasn't out to appear attractive to anyone, especially a potential Creep in a Jeep.
    She took her cup of coffee to the living room, picked up the magazine, put it down again. She stared out the window at the red, purple, and yellow of the changing leaves. The mountains were comforting despite their mystery. The ancient ridges of the Appalachians rolled out like soft ocean waves, in a rhythm that promised protection and peace.
    The buildings of Memphis had been suffocating, the giant walls looming, dense traffic like a herd of sulfur-spewing demons. The hot jaws of the city nipped at her heels with every step, hounded her, gnashed steel-and-concrete teeth at her. A million Creeps lurked in the alleys, two million eyes followed her every move. Memphis would have chewed her, ground her bones to powder, swallowed her.
    The move here had not been a mistake. For the first time in his exalted reign, Mitchell had been wrong, though Mitchell would never admit it.
    "All done, ma'am," said the handyman, coming back into the living room. "The locks are all sound, and you shouldn't get any bad drafts come winter."
    "Great.” She reached for her purse on the floor beside her. Her foot kicked one of the blocks and it rolled to Walter's feet.
    "You a schoolteacher?" he asked.
    "No, I write for the Courier-Times . How much do I owe you?"
    "Nothing," he said. "Mister Webster pays me. Repairs are the landlord's responsibility."
    She thought about tipping, decided against it. These mountain folks were proud about such things. Far different from the grabby people in the city. Instead, she said, "Let me get that coffee for you. Soy creamer’s all I got. Me and dairy disagree."
    "That would be fine, ma’am. I'll go get my thermos. I have to check a couple more things outside first."
    He went out the open front door. When he reappeared several minutes later, he was without his tool belt. He gave her the thermos and waited by the door.
    "Say, did you know your clock was messed up?" he asked when she returned with the filled thermos.
    "My clock?"
    "Yeah, in the bedroom. It was stuck on 4:06 the whole time I was in there."
    She had unplugged the clock. Hadn't she?
    She smiled to disguise the icy rush that shot through her veins. "Thanks for telling me. It's been acting up lately. Guess I'll have to get another one."
    "Yeah. Never heard of a digital clock doing that. Usually they just blink or go dark."
    "Stuck in time." Just like me. The smile felt painted on her face, like a dime-store mannequin's.
    “Keeps you young,” he said. “Growing old is for people who give up too soon.”
    “I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks for the