The man worried as he sat in his car. He knew he had to hurry. Tonight, it was important to keep everything on track. But would the woman come along this road at her usual hour?
It was eleven o'clock at night, and he was cutting it close.
He remembered the voice he had heard, reverberating in his head, before he'd come here. Grandpa's voice.
"You'd better be right about her schedule, Scratch."
Scratch. The man in the car didn't like that name. It wasn't his real name. It was a folktale name for the Devil. As far as Grandpa was concerned, he was a "bad seed."
Grandpa had called him Scratch for longer than he could remember. Although everybody else called him by his real name, Scratch had stuck in his own mind. He hated his grandpa. But he couldn't pull him out of his head.
Scratch reached up and slapped his own skull several times, trying to get the voice out.
It hurt, and for a moment he had a sense of calm.
But then came Grandpa's dull laughter, echoing somewhere in there. It was a little fainter now, at least.
He looked anxiously at his watch. A few minutes past eleven. Would she be late tonight? Would she go somewhere else? No, that wasn't her style. He'd scouted her movements for days. She was always punctual, always stuck to the same routine.
If only she understood how much was at stake. Grandpa would punish him if he botched this. But there was much more to it than that. The world itself was running out of time. He had a huge responsibility, and it weighed on him heavily.
Car lights appeared, far back along the road, and he sighed with relief. That must be her.
This country road only led to a few houses. It was usually deserted at this hour except for the woman who always drove from her job straight to the house where she rented a room.
Scratch had turned his car around to face hers and stopped it right in the middle of this little gravel road. He stood outside, hands trembling, using a flashlight to peer under his hood, hoping it would work.
His heart slammed as the other vehicle drove by.
Stop! he pleaded silently. Please stop!
Soon, the other vehicle pulled to a stop a short distance from him.
He bit back a smile.
Scratch turned and looked toward the lights. Yes, it was her shabby little car, just as he had hoped.
Now, he just had to lure her to him.
She lowered her window, and he looked over at her and smiled his most pleasant smile.
"I guess I'm stranded," he called out.
He turned the flashlight briefly on the driver's face. Yes, it was definitely her.
Scratch noticed that she had a charming, open face. More importantly, she was very thin, which suited his purposes.
It seemed a shame, what he was going to have to do to her. But it was like Grandpa always said: "It's for the greater good."
It was true, and Scratch knew it. If the woman could only understand, perhaps she'd even be willing to sacrifice herself. After all, sacrifice was one of the finest features of human nature. She ought to be glad to be of service.
But he knew that was too much to expect. Things would get violent and messy, just like they always did.
"What's the problem?" the woman called.
He noticed something appealing in how she spoke. He didn't yet know what it was.
"I don't know," he said. "She just died on me."
The woman craned her head out of the window. He looked straight at her. Her freckled face framed by bright red curly hair was open and smiling. She didn't seem to be the least bit dismayed by the inconvenience he'd caused her.
But would she be trusting enough to get out of the car? Probably, if the other women had been any indication.
Grandpa was always telling him how horribly ugly he was, and he couldn't help thinking of himself that way. But he knew that other people-women especially-found him rather pleasant to look at.
He gestured toward the open hood. "I don't know anything about cars," he yelled back to her.
"I don't either," the woman called back.
"Well, maybe the two of us together can figure out what's wrong," he said. "Do you mind giving it a try?"
"Not at all. Just don't expect me to be much help."
She opened her door, got out, and walked toward him. Yes, everything was going perfectly. He had lured her out of her car. But time was still of the essence.
"Let's take a peek," she said, stepping beside him and looking at the engine.
Now he realized what he liked about her voice.
"You've got an interesting accent," he said. "Are you Scottish?"
"Irish," she said pleasantly. "I've only been here two months, got a green card especially so I could work with a family here."
He smiled. "Welcome to America," he said.
"Thanks. I love it so far."
He pointed toward the engine.
"Wait a minute," he said. "What do you think that is?"
The woman bent over for a closer look. He tripped the release and slammed the hood on her head with a thunk.
He opened the hood, hoping not to have to hit her again. Luckily, she was out cold, her face and torso stretched limp across the engine.
He looked all around. Nobody was in sight. Nobody had seen what had happened.
He shook with delight.
He gathered her up in his arms, noticing that her face and the front of her dress were now smeared with grease. She was as light as a feather. He carried her around to the side of his car and stretched her out on the back seat.
He felt certain that this one would serve his needs well.
*
Just as Meara began to regain consciousness, she was jolted by a deafening barrage of noise. It seemed like every kind of sound she could imagine. There were gongs, bells, chimes, birdcalls, and sundry melodies as if from a dozen music boxes. They all seemed deliberately hostile.
She opened her eyes, but nothing came into focus. Her head was splitting with pain.
Where am I? she wondered.
Was it somewhere in Dublin? No, she was able to put together just a bit of chronology. She'd flown here two months ago, started working as soon as she got settled. She was definitely in Delaware. With an effort, she remembered stopping to help a man with his car. Then something had happened. Something bad.
But what was this place, with all its horrible noise?
She became aware that she was being carried like a child. She heard the voice of the man who was carrying her, speaking above the racket.
"Don't worry, we got here on time."
Her eyes began to focus. Her vision was filled by a staggering number of clocks of every conceivable size, shape, and style. She saw massive grandfather clocks flanked by smaller clocks, some of them cuckoo clocks, others with little parades of mechanical people. Still smaller clocks were ranged across shelves.
They're all sounding the hour, she thought.
But in all the noise, she couldn't begin to pick out the number of gongs or bells.
She turned her head to see who was carrying her. He looked down at her. Yes, it was him-the man who had asked for her help. She'd been a fool to stop for him. She'd fallen into his trap. But what was he going to do to her?
As the noise from the clocks died away, her eyes went out of focus again. She couldn't keep them open. She felt her consciousness fading.
Got to stay awake, she thought.
She heard a metallic rattling, then felt herself lowered gently to a cold, hard surface. There was another rattling, followed by footsteps, and finally by a door opening and closing. The multitude of clocks kept ticking.
Then she heard a pair of female voices.
"She's alive."
"Too bad for her."
The voices were hushed and hoarse. Meara managed to open her eyes again. She saw that the floor was gray concrete. She turned painfully and saw three human forms seated on the floor near her. Or at least she thought they were human. They seemed to be young girls, teenagers, but they were gaunt, little more than skeletons, their bones showing clearly beneath their skin. One seemed barely conscious, her head hanging forward and eyes staring at the gray floor. They reminded her of photos she'd seen of prisoners in concentration camps.
Were they even alive? Yes, they must be alive. She'd just heard them both speak.
"Where are we?" Meara asked.
She barely heard the hissed response.
"Welcome," one of them said, "to hell."