Chapter 2 - THE RUN
FB Hook: "I thought my husband was taking us home, but when I checked the glove compartment, I found THREE different passports with his face... and a bloody wristband."CRACK.
The sickening sound of metal hitting bone echoed off the concrete walls. Sparks flew as the wiring ripped from the wall.
Ben let out a choked, gutteral roar as he stumbled forward, slamming into the heavy iron door. The back of his hair was instantly scorched, a line of deep red blooming against his scalp. The hot plate clattered to the floor, smoking and smelling of singed hair and burnt soup.
"RUN!" Helen screamed, her voice cracking with violent desperation. "JULIA, TAKE ETHAN AND RUN!"
I didn't hesitate. Survival instinct took over completely. I grabbed Ethan under his arms, hoisted his forty-pound body against my chest, and sprinted past Ben before he could regain his footing.
"Julia!" Ben screamed—a sound that didn't belong to a human being. It was a demonic, rage-filled howl. "GET BACK HERE!"
I shoved the cellar door open, burst out into the damp subterranean stairwell, and scrambled up the slippery concrete steps into the gray daylight. The neighbor lady was still standing near her fence, holding a pair of garden shears, looking bewildered.
"Call 911!" I screamed at her, my lungs burning as I sprinted across the overgrown lawn toward my SUV. "Call the police right now!"
"Mommy! Mommy!" Ethan sobbed, clinging to my neck like a vice.
I threw open the rear door of my car, shoved Ethan into his car seat, and didn't even bother buckling him in. I leaped into the driver's seat, slammed the door, locked it, and shoved the key into the ignition.
In my rearview mirror, I saw Ben burst out of the cellar stairwell. Blood was streaming down the back of his neck, staining his collar crimson. His eyes were wide, maniacal, utterly unhinged. He ran toward the car with terrifying speed.
Clank-clank-clank.
The engine turned over, caught, and roared to life. I threw the SUV into reverse just as Ben reached the hood, slamming his hands against the windshield with enough force to crack the glass.
"Julia! Open the damn door!" he roared, his face pressed against the cracked glass, eyes bulging.
I slammed my foot on the accelerator. The tires squealed against the gravel, kicking up dust and dirt as the car shot backward into the street. Ben lost his grip and tumbled onto the grass, rolling over immediately and scrambling back to his feet.
I slammed the shifter into Drive, tore down the quiet suburban street, and didn't look back until the house was swallowed by the turn at the end of the road.
My hands were shaking so violently I could barely hold the steering wheel. Tears blurred my vision as I drove blindly toward the highway.
"Mommy, is Daddy mad at us?" Ethan sobbed from the backseat, curling into a ball. "Why was Grandma in the dark?"
"It's okay, baby," I gasped, wiping my eyes with my sleeve, trying to keep my voice from trembling. "It's okay. Mommy's got you. We're safe now."
But we weren't safe. I knew we weren't.
I pulled over into the parking lot of a deserted gas station five miles away, my chest heaving as I tried to regain control of my breathing. My phone was sitting on the passenger seat. I snatched it up, my hands trembling as I dialed 911.
"911, what is your emergency?"
"I need the police! My husband—he locked his mother in a basement! He... he attacked us! He's at 414 Elm Street!" I shouted into the receiver.
"Ma'am, calm down. What is your name and current location?"
I gave the dispatcher my name and location. She assured me that units were being dispatched to the Elm Street address and that an officer was coming to my location to take a statement.
I sank back into the leather seat, staring out at the rain beginning to splatter against the cracked windshield. I looked in the rearview mirror at Ethan, who was hugging his knees, terrified.
"I need to find your medicine, Ethan," I murmured, remembering that I had stashed his asthma inhaler in the glove compartment earlier that morning. My hands were trembling so badly I could barely press the release latch.
The glove compartment popped open.
Inside, beneath the vehicle registration and a stack of napkins, was a thick, black leather pouch I had never seen before.
My heart did a strange, nauseating flip. I reached in and pulled it out. Unzipping it, my stomach dropped into a bottomless pit.
Inside were three different passports.
I pulled out the first one. It was a U.S. passport featuring a crisp, professional photo of my husband. But the name didn't say Benjamin Carter. It read: Arthur Vance.
I opened the second passport. A Canadian passport. Same face, shaved head, wearing glasses. The name read: David Miller.
I opened the third passport. A British passport. The name read: Julian Ross.
"No..." I whispered, the cold reality crashing over me like a tidal wave. "No, no, no..."
Beneath the passports in the pouch was a small clear plastic bag containing a hospital identification wristband. It was old, yellowed at the edges, and bore a dark, dried smudge of blood along the rim.
I looked closely at the printed text on the plastic band:
PATIENT: CARTER, BENJAMIN STATUS: DECEASED - OCT 14, 2019 CAUSE: BLUNT FORCE TRAUMA
The breath vanished from my lungs. My entire body went completely numb.
October 14, 2019.
That was six months before I met "Ben" at a coffee shop in downtown Chicago.
The real Benjamin Carter had been dead for seven years.
The man I had been sleeping next to, the man who kissed me goodnight, the man who called my son his child... was a ghost. A monster who had stolen a dead man's life.
And right then, my phone began to vibrate in my lap.
An unknown number appeared on the screen.
May you like
With a trembling hand, I slid the icon to answer and held the phone to my ear.
"Julia," the voice on the other end murmured. It was smooth, calm, and utterly devoid of mercy. "You shouldn't have looked in the glove box."
