Chapter II: Lance

The sun sank under the horizon, and the night cast its shadow over the lesser-traveled road that ran through the empty countryside. In the dark, two figures trudged along the side of the road with two flashlights as their only guide. Whenever a rare-chanced vehicle came down the road, they would quickly turn off their lights and dive into a ditch to avoid being seen. They didn't want to have any witnesses. They were dressed in black and were carrying empty bags over their shoulders. They finally crossed a gravel driveway and followed it up to an old house set so far back that if they hadn't been looking for it, they would have missed it.

"Whoa! I didn't know this was out here," one of the teenagers said to his friend. "How did you find this place?"

"My brother past it when he was driving back to town on his truck route," his friend replied.

"And he's sure that no one lives here?"

"Yeah. Why would anyone wanna live in this trash dump?"

"I don't know, but if we get caught . . . ."

"You getting scared, Drew?"

"No, it's just . . ."

"Then let's go."

They proceeded to the porch and opened the front door. It squealed as it swung open and they shined their lights into the dark foyer.

"Sweet," Drew breathed. "It's the perfect scene for a horror movie."

"It'd make an even better hideout," his friend said.

They left the door open as they walked further into the house, shining their lights across every inch to see what they could find. The first room they intruded in had a fireplace built in the far wall and several pieces of furniture set up around the room all covered with dust. On the mantle above the fireplace were picture frames but they held no pictures. Oil paintings accented the left wall but they were so faded and dark that it was hard to tell what the objects of the paintings had been. Candleholders were scattered around the room with half burned candles sweating beads of dried wax. Some sat on side tables like the one next to the sofa in front of the boarded bay window and one next to a large chair which had a long, pipe residing on it. They past their flashlights over it quickly and moved on failing to notice the light, white trail of smoke ascending up from the pipe's bell. Drew went over to one of the side tables and opened the drawer while his accomplice checked through the contents of the one next to the sofa.

"Hey, Paul, check this out!" Drew held up something for him to see and Paul aimed the light of his flashlight on it. It was an eight-inch dagger with an ivory handle decorated with intricate carvings of an angelic, feminine face and a pair of angel wings.

"Holy . . ." Paul whispered taking it out of Drew's hands to look at it closely. "Do you have any idea what kind of price this would catch?"

"About fifty."

"Definitely more than that." Paul handed it back to Drew. "Put it in your bag and see what else you can find. I'm going to search some of the other rooms." He left Drew to search greedily through the rest of the drawers. He looked up at the staircase leading up to the second floor than decided to continue searching the ground floor first. He crossed under the archway between the foyer and the next room and found the room almost entirely empty.

There were several cabinets, a faucet, gas range, and a simple table in the middle of the room. All were covered in dust. He walked over to the wall of cabinets and opened one. If this had been a kitchen then perhaps there would be some valuable silver or china but all he found were empty spaces within the whole line of ceiling cabinets. Not even bothering to search the bottom cabinets, Paul turned to leave the room when the beam of his flashlight past over a pile of broken ceiling boards stacked up in front of a door.

He set his flashlight on the table so the light illuminated the door and he set about clearing the boards away so he could open the door. The boards were old and had a significant amount of water damage that made them crack and flake apart when he picked them up. By the time he had finished moving them, he was covered in chalky dust.

He wiped his hands off on his jeans and, taking the flashlight off the table, opened the door revealing a staircase. Paul cursed under his breath. The basements of these houses were always the creepiest, but they always seemed to store the best junk. He stepped down onto the first step then moved quickly to the second when he felt the first sink in. As he continued down the stairs, it became progressively colder. The air became thick and musty to the point where he was almost gagging. When he reached the end of the stairs, he wanted to rush back up for air but stopped himself when he saw the crates stacked up at the other end of the basement.

"Jackpot"

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"Paul," Drew called into the foyer. He had completed his search of the sitting room and had only found a couple of old books and a few glass items but nothing as valuable as the dagger. He walked under the archway and into the kitchen. "Paul?" he called again. He was not sure where Paul had gone and the silence that followed made him uneasy.

Suddenly, something moved in his peripheral vision and he quickly shined his flashlight to where it had been. The beam of light swept across the floor but nothing was there. He drew in a sharp breath and convinced himself that it had probably been a rat. A big, black rat. The thought did nothing to make him feel better and his hands began to sweat.

"Come on Paul," Drew mumbled. He slung off his bag and took out the dagger to take another good look at it. It was prettier now that he was taking the time to look it over. He turned it in his hands and ran his fingers over each precise curve of the angel's wings. He was about to put the dagger back into his bag when something came towards him.

"Paul?" Drew said as he aimed the flashlight at the person but before the beam of light could fall across the person's face, the flashlight was knocked out of his hand and he fell to the floor. The dagger slipped out of his other hand and slid across the floor and the flashlight rolled in a half circle until the light was on him.

"Who the hell are you?" Drew asked choking on the rising dust.

"This house doesn't belong to you," the person growled. "Get out!"

"I. . . .I . . ." Drew stuttered. He dove for the flashlight and aimed it into the face of his attacker. The person held up his arm and pulled away from the light like a vampire. Drew jumped to his feet with renewed courage and pulled his arm down, shining the light into the person's defiant eyes. His courage fled him and he went numb.

"Lance!" He yelped recognizing one of his more withdrawn classmates. Drew had seen him a few times at school but he held such a severe, anti-social aura about him that Drew knew better than to go near him. Not that this guy was someone Drew wanted to hang out with. He wasn't much into the whole Goth scene anyway but they were sure scary at night. "This house is abandoned," he pointed out.

"This is my house," Lance hissed. The dark eyelids seemed to blacken against the bright light making him look like the living dead. His dress was entirely black; black shoes, black slacks, black shirt, black vest, black jacket. Only his skin provided a sharp contrast as a sickly white, perhaps gray, but the charcoal gray that cursed his eyelids, leaving a light gray tint underneath made his eyes show what facial emotions were capable of doing for anyone else. At that moment his eyes showed anger and disgust while his lips stayed relax. He pulled his arm away from Drew. "Take your friend and get out!" His voice was monotonous, completely machine-like.

"I don't know where he is," Drew mumbled. He looked over Lance's shoulder and saw the open door. "He might be . . . ."

Lance turned around and Drew swore he could see his outline shaking in the light. He stepped away from Drew and walked slowly towards the basement door. Drew knelt down while keeping his eyes focused on Lance as he groped for the dagger. He wasn't going to leave empty handed. When his hand closed around the handle, he grabbed his bag and bolted for the door. He ran out to the edge of the driveway before looking behind him to see if he was being followed. No one came after him so he continued down the road. Paul would be able to fend for himself.

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Paul wiped the thick layer of dust off one of the crates and shined his light on the top. It had "FRAGILE" stamped on it in bold, red letters. He tried to lift the top off but it was nailed shut. He checked several other crates before giving up on them. They were all nailed shut. He would have to come back the next night with a crow bar or some type of wedge to force them open. He shined his light around the basement before settling it on a tarp that was staked down to the floor. Why would anyone bother to drive stakes into concrete was beyond him but there was something bulging underneath it. He reached for the tarp when something heavy fell upstairs.

He froze and listened. Drew was a klutz. He probably saw a rat or his own shadow and dropped his bag. He heard the stairs creak.

"Drew?"

"Get out of the basement!"

Paul dropped his flashlight and the glass lens shattered on the floor. They couldn't have been caught. No one knew they were out there. Was it even possible that someone actually lived here? He crept to the stairs and peered up between the railings at the person who was standing at the top of the stairs. It definitely wasn't Drew. Drew was heavily built, chubby. The person who was standing in the doorway was thinner, someone Paul could handle if he had to take him down.

He moved away from the railing and backed towards the other end of the basement. If that guy wanted him out of the basement so badly then he'd have to come and get him. There was silence on the steps and he thought perhaps it had been Drew after all. Of course with no light it would be impossible to tell.

Something rustled against the wall where the tarp had been staked down and Paul turned towards the sound. It was probably just a rat or some cockroaches. Paul shivered. These old houses housed some pretty creepy critters. He moved back over towards the crates and waited against the wall. Without his flashlight, he couldn't see a damned thing and the noises were beginning to get to him. Suddenly, the rustling stopped and something began to tear the tarp apart. Not cleanly like with a sharp straight-edge but raggedly like with teeth or nails.

Paul's hands began to sweat. That thing wasn't a rat and there was no way in hell it was cockroaches or even termites. He felt the wall against his back and began to move back towards the stairs. He didn't care if there was someone upstairs. It could be a police officer or some hick with a shotgun for all he cared, he just wanted out of the basement! The tarp crumpled back and Paul swore he could feel the air against his face as it was thrown aside. He cried out when he heard a door slam and that gave him his cue to run for the stairs.

He didn't hear anything behind him, he didn't hear anything at all except for his sneakers pounding against the wood stairs as he flew up them towards the door. He threw himself against it while twisting the handle as hard as he could but the door was locked. He pounded on the door, screaming for Drew or anyone to open the door. The stairs creaked and Paul turned around.

And Lance stood by the door with his hand clamped on the doorknob tight enough that his knuckles ached. The screams burned in his ears even after it had ended making him sick. When he finished dry heaving, he moved heavily towards the open door, knowing that one of them had returned for him. He stood in the doorway and glared out at the night. It didn't matter, at least now. That kid had taken something from his house and he intended on getting it back. At all costs.

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Drew had never thought himself to be a good runner. He hated gym and would occasionally skip to hang out with a bunch of other skippers to pass a warm joint around. But now that he had ran all the way from the house, back to town, and was still keeping a good pace, he promised himself that he would find another class to skip since running seemed to have its perks. He just hoped that Lance wasn't as skilled at running as he was at sneaking up on people. The dagger rested in the inner pocket of his jacket that was unzipped to allow for the cold night air to dry the sweat off his chest.

He ran under the bright illumination of the streetlights, setting a goal at each one to make it to the next so as to force his heavy legs to keep moving. Once he got to the cemetery it would be a straight, clean shot to his house on the other side and no one would be able to see him. He turned many street corners and covered more ground with his sneakers pounding against the sidewalk, keeping in time with each stroke of his legs until he made it to the black, rod iron gates of Brookfield's cemetery.

It was like being at the gates of heaven. He fingered for the latch to open the gate and found that it had been padlocked. His heart was beating so fast that he thought it would beat right out of his chest cavity. The fence enclosing the cemetery was ten feet tall all around with a twelve-foot gate. He moved away from the gate and grabbed a hold of the bars as if he were intending to pull them apart and slip through. He was intent on going through the cemetery that he was crazy enough to try to shimmy up and over the fence. He moved his right hand over and grasping one bar slipped his legs through the spaces on each side and wrapped them around the bar. He then began to pull himself up the bar. He slid down several times but somehow managed to grab the vertical bar at the top, pull himself up, and jump to the other side. He landed on the ground with most of his weight on his right foot, sending a shock of pain through his ankle. He rolled over onto his side and touched it, trying to rotate it, knowing that he had probably broken a damned bone. Standing up, he limped painfully past the darkened gravestones with nothing to illuminate his way. He had to depend on gut instinct and just walk in a straight line.

His heart slowed down and the adrenaline that had been pumping through his veins faded away leaving him cold and aching. His right leg dragged behind him while his ankle throbbed as it swelled to twice its size. The books in his bag were becoming a discomfort, their edges poking through the polyester threads and digging into his back. He reshouldered it but the edges of the books still dug into his skin, attacking him for taking them away from their home. He finally decided to discard the bag and return for it later. He tossed it aside and heard the glass dish break as it struck a nearby headstone. He flinched but knowing that there couldn't possibly be anyone out in the cemetery this late at night to hear it, he continued to meander in the direction he thought would take him home.

The dead leaves crunched under his left foot and were brushed away by his right foot, which dragged behind him. The motion produced a step-drag pattern that beat in his head. Step, drag. Step, drag. Step, drag. Those were the only sounds he heard, a kind of rhythmic song with no melody. Step, drag. Step drag. Step, snap. Drew froze.

A nervous sweat beaded on his forehead and dripped down his face. There was no way anyone, even Lance, could have followed him. No one. Could they? He picked up his pace the best he could and plowed right into a bush. "Shit," he muttered as he tried to detach himself from it while snapping branches to further alert anyone, if anyone was there, where he was. He managed to get out of the bush and move past it only to be slapped in the face by the branches of a tree.

The night was quickly turning into a dark hell and the fear of being caught occupied his thoughts as he frantically struggled to get past the present obstacle and rushed forward not caring how much it hurt his ankle or how much noise he made. He glanced behind him to see if he was being pursued when he rammed his knee into an upright gravestone invisible in the night. He tripped and fell over the stone, landing on his face. He rolled over onto his back and cursed when he tried to bend his knee but ended up with another shock of pain. Another snap and the crisp sound of footsteps came closer to him. On all fours, Drew crawled forward, cursing to himself while groping blindly with one hand in front of him to feel for any obstacles in his path. His heart was beating so loudly that it was all he could hear along with the footsteps coming closer till they were almost on top of him. His fingertips brushed up against a cold headstone and he pulled himself up to peer over the top. Just ahead of him, there was a thin line of trees whose silhouettes were projected by the light given off by the streetlights on the other side. He withheld a sigh of relief knowing that there was another ten-foot fence awaiting him when he got there. He reached inside the lining of his jacket and pulled out the dagger. At least he had a weapon.

He continued his slow crawl towards the dim lights until he was close enough that the headstones around him began to take shape and throw dimly outlined shadows against the ground. When he came to the last row of headstones, he crouched down and searched around him before proceeding towards the gate, forcing himself faster than his injuries would allow him. As his hands came in contact with the cold iron bars, two strong hands clamped down on his shoulders and tore him away, throwing him against a tree. He kept a death grip on the dagger as he scrambled to his feet brushing away the dried leaves that had rained down from the tree. Even though the streetlights on the other side of the fence provided enough light for him to see who had attacked him, he was still fearful and confused. He had run all the way from the house, scaled a ten-foot fence, crossed the cemetery in the dark and still Lance had managed to intercept him.

"Damn it! Stupid freak, get the hell away from me!" Drew yelled waving the dagger in front of his face threateningly as if he intended to use it.

Lance took a step towards him without hesitating and in response Drew took a step back pressing his back against the tree. Lance took another step forward and Drew slid around the tree's trunk to place something solid between them. He continued to move backwards, keeping his eyes glued to the tree when he felt someone breathing down his back. He spun around with the dagger raised above his head, the blade gleaming in the dim light, and brought it down. Lance caught Drew's arm and twisted it to the side causing Drew to lean to the side with it.

"I'm not leaving until you return to me what is mine," Lance whispered. His cold eyes burned into Drew's mind with an emotionless glare, but Drew saw the corner of his mouth curve back making a cynical impression.

"Finders keepers pal," Drew retorted. "It's not like you were going to do anything with it." Lance continued to stare at Drew then let go of him. Drew sneered at him only to receive a swift strike against his cheek. He stumbled back and caught himself in time for Lance to ram him against another tree with both hands on his shoulders. "Shit!" His hand moved with the dagger, only with the intention of grazing Lance's skin but he hadn't realized how close Lance really was and the dagger plunged into his side. Blood poured out onto Drew's hand and soaked the sleeve of his jacket. He heard Lance gasp and felt the sharp exhalation of cold, scentless breath against his face as he slumped forward trying to use Drew to hold himself up. Drew could feel the blood soak into his jeans and tried frantically to push him away. The dagger dragged across more flesh before the blade resurfaced from within his body sending more blood pouring out, splattering onto Drew's shirt and soaking through to his skin. Lance wavered for a few moments on his feet before falling to the ground.

Drew could feel his body tremble as he slipped away from what he knew was the scene of a crime. He grasped the bars of the fence and without a second glance, struggled to climb over. Instead of jumping to the ground he slid down to the other side peeling the skin off his palms. He made it to the sidewalk before turning over several bushes to throw up. As he was dry heaving, he realized that he still had the dagger clenched in his hand and felt even worse. He had deserted his friend and murdered someone just to keep a piece of ivory with a metal blade. In disgust, he threw it over the cemetery fence and limped home. If Lance wanted the dagger so badly then fine, he could have it.