Speaking in Tongues

with the strength of the cinder blocks piled up in her trap. It was this: that Crazy Megan not only isn’t crazy, she’s completely sane. And more than that: C.M. is the only one of them who’s real.
    Crazy Megan is the genuine Megan—the Megan who danced on the scaffolding of the water tower on a dare, just to get Bett or Tate or somebody to notice her. The Megan who secretly dreamed of going to San Francisco for a year after high school and then to college in Paris. The Megan who made fierce love with a sexy black boyfriend who—fuck you, Dr. Hanson—I do love after all! The Megan who wanted to poke her finger into her father’s face and scream at him, “The inconvenient child’s back and you’ve got her whether you like it or not!”
    Oh, yeah, Crazy Megan’s the sane one. And the other one’s just a loser.
    “Okay,” she said out loud. “Okay, prick, come and get me.” The shadow of Peter Matthews froze on the wall.
    The light clicked out and the corridor filled with darkness.
    “Come on, you fucker!” she shouted.
    There was a ring of metal—he must have picked up the rod.
    She couldn’t see clearly but she could just make out his form lumbering slowly from the doorway. He looked up and down the hall and then turned toward her. “Megan . . .”
    God, he’s big.
    “Megan!” he rasped.
    He started toward her. Moving much faster than she’d expected from the shuffling lope she’d heard earlier.
    Her courage dissolved. What a fucking stupid idea this is! Hell, it’s not going to work. Of course it isn’t. He’ll get her.
    “No!” she screamed in panic.
    Get going! Crazy Megan shouts. Run.
    She backed up fast, knowing that she should be watching where she was going but afraid to take her eyes off him for an instant.
    Feeling the wall behind her. Nearly tripped on a table. She spun around, pushed it aside.
    And when she looked back he was gone.
    We’re fucked, Crazy Megan whispers hopelessly.
    He could be anywhere now! Coming up around her from the left or the right.
    And, of course, she remembered, he’d have keys to the place; he could hide in one of the locked rooms and wait for her to pass by. And then . . . move from room to room and come up behind her.
    There was nothing she could do now except return to the dead end corridor where she’d set up the trap. Get there as fast as she could and wait.
    But in her panic she was turned around. Was it back that way? Or down this corridor? She gazed down two hallways. Which? He could be down either of them. She could hardly see a thing in the darkness.
    There, she thought. It’s got to be that one. I’m sure.
    Almost sure.
    She sprinted. She slammed into a fiberglass chair, sending it flying. She stayed upright but the noise of the furniture hitting the wall was very loud.
    Megan froze. Had he heard? Had—
    Suddenly a huge form stepped from the corridor about two feet away, lunging toward her. “Megan . . .”
    Megan screamed, couldn’t get the knife up in time. She closed her eyes, swinging her left fist toward where his face was. She connected hard and must have broken his nose because he wailed in pain and dropped back, around the corner.
    She ran.
    Turned one corner and paused at the entrance to the hallway that led to the trap.
    He followed, moving toward her.
    She made sure he got a good look at her, to see which way she was going, then started toward the trap.
    But she stopped. Wait! Was it this corridor? No,the next. Wait. Was it? She glanced into the murky shadows and couldn’t see.
    Peter was getting closer. Which fucking corridor? Crazy Megan shouts.
    I don’t know, I don’t know, they all look alike . . .
    He was twenty feet away.
    Come on, snaps C.M. Get it together.
    No choice. It better be this one.
    Megan ran to the end of the corridor.
    Yes! She’d been right. There was the trap. She crouched down and picked up the end of the rope. At the far end of the corridor Peter paused and glanced toward her.
    More muttering. Like an animal. She remembered the newspaper picture: his odd mouth, probing tongue, the crazy eyes. The grin at his mother’s funeral.
    I’m so fucking scared . . .
    You’re gonna nail him, Crazy Megan says.
    In the darkness he didn’t even seem to be walking. He just floated closer to her, growing larger and larger, filling the corridor. He stopped right before the trap. She couldn’t see his eyes or face in the shadow but she knew he was leering at her.
    More muttering.
    He