Imp

by Andrew Neiderman

  “What is it?” he asked, ashamed at how his voice cracked. He cleared his throat quickly. She stepped further into the light.

  “And death and hell delivered up the dead which were in them: and they were judged every man according to their works. And death and hell were cast into the lake of fire. This is the second death.”

  “No shit,” he said and laughed. He felt protected by his laughter, but he couldn’t face her off. It was easier to go into the house and up to his room, leaving her mumbling in the darkness behind him. But before he fell asleep, he saw her face in the porch light again and he promised himself that someday soon he would do something about her.

  He never did.

  And then it became too late.

  Of all his sins, failure to act was his greatest.

  TWO

  For so long he had known only darkness. The small amount of light that penetrated the boarded windows produced a hazy, dim illumination, outlining and silhouetting his whole world in a sandy gray that made everything dull and distorted. Even the creature that came down to him was shrouded in shadows. The small ceiling fixture she turned on seemed to concentrate the dark spots rather than eliminate them.

  He could almost smell her as quickly as he could see her. He knew her scent better than he knew the features of her face. From the first day he could remember, she had been rough with him. There was never anything pleasant or soft in her voice, and she gave him no human comfort.

  She provided him with food and the blankets and the box in which he slept. She brought down the pails of sand to replace any she took out from the square in which he littered. Long ago, through the inflicting of pain, she had taught him that this was the only area in which he could excrete.

  His floor was made of stone and cement. The only soft spots were in his box with the blankets and in the sand, so he developed hard calluses on his feet, on his knees, and on his palms. In the beginning, he scratched and bumped himself often, developing sores and wounds. He never really cried aloud when that happened. Instead, he would utter a short yelp and sob within, his body shaking with the unhappiness. There was no one to appeal to, to seek sympathy from; so he licked his own wounds, stroked and rocked his body, and created a soft, monotone hum to quiet his fear and pain whenever he had any.

  He had always had enough to eat and drink, although never in any great abundance. There was a time when the creature fed him. He remembered having to eat very quickly, swallowing almost as fast as she shoved the food at him. Now she merely left it by the box. A few times he had tried to use the spoon and the fork, but he found them too slow, for he was used to wolfing his food, to hovering over it like a rodent, scooping some of it in, chewing, looking about to be sure nothing threatened the remainder, scooping, chewing…

  The creature wouldn’t wait to watch him eat. He sensed early on that she wanted the least amount of contact with him as possible. He felt the same way toward her. If she didn’t demand that he come to her, he would linger in the darkness, eyeing her like a field mouse in a hole, waiting for her to drop off the food and leave. Then he would scurry out quickly, before any other little animals could get there, and eat.

  She wanted him to wear the diapers or the shorts, but he soiled them so often that she stopped changing him. The last one remained on him so long that it hung off in shreds before she removed it. Periodically, she would come down to wash him in the large basin she had left there for that purpose. He hated the baths, because the water was always so hot it nearly scorched him. She ran the water into the basin directly from the hot-water tank in the corner, mixing only a pail or two of cooler water with it. And she scrubbed him with that vicious vigor, suggesting she wanted to rub the skin off him. It was no use to wail or struggle. If he did, she would squeeze his neck so hard, it would make his eyes pop; or she would smack him so sharply, it burned more than the hot water.

  He always knew when she was coming because she flipped on the ceiling fixture first. She would never come down to him in the dark. As soon as the light went on, he would cover his eyes and scurry for a safe spot. Safe spots were the little caverns and openings he had found for himself. There was the area between the hot-water heater and the stone wall foundation; there was the tunnel he had found between the boxes and old furniture stored in the rear. Lately, he had been more inventive about safe places.

  Stronger now, his hands more like claws, with his long fingernails and callused fingers and palms, he climbed up the fieldstone walls, inserting his toughened feet in slots and spaces, using the old stones like a ladder to work his way up to the rafters. Here, he would find places to embed himself between studs and corners, pressing his body into the roof or against the wall, so that he could balance and secure himself above the basement floor.

  The first thing he learned when he did this was that he could hear and feel what was happening above him. Exploring the roof of the basement from this vantage point, he was able to discover places in the floorboards that were widely separated. Through them, he could see light and shadows and smell the scents of things that were fascinating and remarkable to him.

  The good thing about the higher safe places was that they were really safer. The first time the creature came down to find him for his bath and he was up against the ceiling, she was unable to locate him for the longest time. He heard the great anger in her voice when she screamed, “WHERE ARE YOU, IMP!” He pressed himself as hard as he could against the wall and ceiling, instinctively making his body into the smallest target possible.

  She began to pull boxes, furniture, and other things apart. Frustrated by her failure to find him, she took off the wide, thick leather strap she always wore when she came down to him and swung it about threateningly. “IMP,” she called. “IMP, GET OVER HERE!” He hadn’t heard the words often enough to really understand their meanings, but he read her gestures and the tone of her voice well enough to understand that she wanted him to come to her. He had seen her pour the pail of water into the tub and set up the hot-water hose. He knew what she was planning for him. So he resisted.

  Furious, she went back upstairs and came down with a flashlight. The first time he saw that, he thought it was some kind of fire. He had seen fire in the furnace and she had burned him with a candle to show him that playing with fire was dangerous. He saw the beam moving over the wall, getting closer and closer to him. He was positive that when the light touched him, it would burn him the way the candle had. So just before it reached him, he screamed and came out of his safe place. Even so, she put the beam on him and he screamed in anticipation of the pain. She was at him instantly. As soon as she was able to reach up and take hold of him, she struck him with the belt. He cried and made his pleading sounds, but she was out to teach him a lesson.

  She struck him until there were welts all along his thighs and his buttocks. Then she antagonized the pain immediately by forcing him into the hot tub. After she dried him and wrapped him in the towel, she put him in his box and stood over him threateningly. Again, it was only from her gestures and tone of voice that he understood she was warning him. He cowered and squeezed himself together, pulling his legs and arms in, folding himself and burying his head in his body, just as the little animals did when he trapped them in a corner of the basement. After he felt her heavy shadow move off him and saw the cellar light go off, he unfolded.

  There, safe in his darkness, he whimpered and hummed, comforting himself with the feel of his own arms around his torso, squeezing as hard as he could to subdue the pain. He listened to the buzz of motors and the sound of water traveling through pipes. He felt a spider crawl over his neck on its journey across his box. He pulled the blankets up over his legs, wrapping himself in his little cocoon, and fell asleep dreaming of field mice burrowing deeply into the coolness and safety of the stone walls.

  Thereafter, whenever she came down to find him for some reason, she always brought her flashlight along. And when she called him, he came. The flashlight was too powerful. He believed it could
even reach through things to find him. There was no safe place from the beam of light, so it was best to obey. After he came to her, he always curled up instinctively, expecting some blow or reprimand. Sometimes he whimpered for mercy; sometimes it worked and sometimes it didn’t.

  He hated looking directly into her face. There was a fire and an anger there that he felt strongly. But always when she washed him in the tub, it was difficult not to look closely at her. If he tried to turn away, she would grasp a handful of his hair and tug him around. Then he would have to face her, as she scrubbed his cheeks and ears.

  Her eyes were always blazing. Although she was big, the biggest creature he had ever seen, she had small eyes—eyes that reminded him of the soft, furry creatures that lived in holes dug between the stone wall foundation and the cellar floor. Once he grabbed a small one and held it tightly in his hands. It struggled to escape and then, when it realized the futility, changed its look of fear into one of hate. It swung its head about, trying to seize the skin of his fingers into its mouth. But he took hold of the top of its head and stopped that. He squeezed it so hard that red liquid emerged from its mouth. Finally, it stopped the struggle and fell over in his hand limply. He flung it into a corner to rot with other things.

  She had this look of hate in her eyes, so he feared that one day she might bite him. Her teeth were small and her mouth twisted and turned, the lips squirming like worms. He had nightmares about that mouth. He saw it come down on his neck and shoulders; he felt the tongue pierce his skin.

  He knew what it was to be bitten. The little furry creatures had nipped his legs and arms at times, especially when he was asleep. He’d wake with a start and slap out quickly. Often, he struck one hard enough to stop its movement and make it cold. He wished he could do the same to her.

  She muttered sounds as she washed him. They had a rhythm to them that he began to recognize time after time. She’d stop in the middle sometimes and hold his head between her hands, while she looked up at the ceiling and muttered. When she dipped his head under the water, she held it down so hard and so long, he sensed a terrible danger. Then he would struggle as fiercely as he could, swinging and flinging his arms about wildly, until she relaxed the pressure. Once, when he did that, he scratched her and she beat him unmercifully, forgetting the rest of his bath.

  He had gotten so he hated the sound of her, the feel of her, the scent of her. In the confines of his small world, there was nothing he feared and despised more. None of the small creatures threatened him. He was amused by them and even welcomed them, for they were company and amusement in a world of solitude and loneliness.

  There was one thing that he did long for even more than food when he was hungry and water when he was thirsty. That was the other creature, the smaller creature. He hadn’t seen her as much, but the few times he did, he instinctively recognized a warm, loving feeling between them. When she spoke, she spoke in soft, kind tones. The two times that she touched him when she was here, she touched him gently and affectionately. He wanted her to touch him more, to talk to him more, and to be with him more.

  When he discovered that he could hear her and even feel her through the roof of the cellar, he was ecstatic. It filled his life with a terrific new pleasure. Sometimes he waited in his high safe spot for hours, just for a momentary sound, whether it be the sound of her footsteps or the sound of her voice.

  For a long time he had been trying to attract her attention by blowing through the cracks in the roof. He was afraid that the bigger creature would hear him, so he was as careful as he could be about when he would do it. One day, the nicer creature realized it and blew back at him through the floor. He let her warm breath wash over his face like a kiss. Whenever she did it, he would turn his head, taking the air over as much of his head as he could. After she stopped, he would call to her with his tiny whimper or his own breath.

  One day he discovered a board that would move just a little. There was enough of a space for him to squeeze a finger through it. She realized what he had done and put her hand over the opening to keep him from pushing too far up and revealing himself to Mary. That was when he touched her.

  The feel of her skin sent an electricity of warmth through him. Never had he felt this ecstatic about anything. He got so excited about it that he pressed his face into the ceiling too hard and the wood scratched his skin. But he didn’t mind the pain. The pleasure of her skin went beyond any pain. For this he would risk anything, everything. She let him touch her for as long as she could.

  This became a ritual between them. He got so he could tell when it would happen. His natural clock kept him aware of time and events. If it were possible to do it at any other time, she would call to him softly. She didn’t use the same word the big creature did. Instead of “Imp,” she said, “Baby.” He liked the sound of that much better, especially the way her voice traveled over the vowel and ended in the soft “e.”

  He had amazing hearing, his audio sense compensating for his diminished eyesight due to the darkness and grayness of his world. He could hear a rodent digging, a snake slithering, a fly buzzing across the basement. He got so he could distinguish between upstairs sounds. He knew the smaller creature’s footsteps. The larger creature hit the floor with a sharper, harder step. He thought she was continuously angry.

  But there were many upstairs sounds he didn’t understand—the whistle of the teapot, the slamming of doors, the sounds of pots and pans, the frightening sound of churning motors in blenders and mixers. He liked the sound of music and recognized something soft and warm in much of it. Even the heavy organ music of Mary’s religious programs was attractive to him. He moved along the wall, trying to get as close to the music as he could. There he would sit or hang for as long as the music was on. Sometimes he fell asleep to it; sometimes he simply went into a blissful trance. Whatever he did, he welcomed the sound as one of the few pleasures in an otherwise dismal existence.

  Of course, he didn’t know it as dismal. He knew it as his world, the world to which he had grown accustomed. In it there was little warmth and much hardness and roughness, unpleasant odors, confinement, and darkness. But all this made him harder and stronger, rather than weaker and puny.

  His tiny body elongated into a wiry, muscular form. Like a monkey, he had gotten so he could grasp with his feet as well as his hands, and swing and hang on rafters and pipes. He climbed everywhere—over the stone wall, across the ceiling, up the water heater, and around the boxes and old objects that were stored in the basement. Most of his day was spent exploring, fingering and tasting objects and things he had found. There was always something new: whether it be opening an old dresser drawer and then spending hours inspecting the contents, or working his hands over a machine, digging his fingers into openings, finding and removing loose parts.

  These explorations, the excitement of the discoveries above, the experiences he had with little animals and small creatures, and the terror of dealing with the big creature were the events of his life. There wasn’t much more, until the day he began to sense, with an ever-increasing intensity, that beyond the confines of the stone foundation lingered newer and even more wonderful discoveries. He began to think about it more.

  And then, one day, purely by accident, while he was climbing over the stone foundation, he felt a rock loosen. He paused to inspect it with his “impish” curiosity and discovered that he could move it some more by pushing it from side to side. A tiny opening appeared, letting in the smallest amount of light. At first he was shocked and frightened by it. He pulled his hand away, expecting it to be burned or stung. When that didn’t happen, he approached the rock cautiously again and jiggled the stone, until the hole grew wider and wider. Finally, it was wide enough for him to put his eye to it.

  The sight filled him with life; he was like someone resurrected. Impatient with the strands of his long black hair that fell between his eyes and the hole, he tugged them away roughly and painfully. When he looked again, his gray, brooding face lit up wit
h wonderment. The toughened, sandpaper skin of his wide, protruding forehead wrinkled with curiosity. His small, flat nose wiggled from side to side, as he widened the nostrils to gather up scents. His lips, pale and thin, opened and closed with a nervous rhythm. In his excitement, his prehensile fingers, with their long, sharp fingernails, dug into his own thighs.

  The colors were the most exciting thing he had ever seen. There were the greens and the browns and off beyond them was something very blue and very soft. The pinhole view was enough to create a ravenous hunger for knowledge. Now, working as would a starving animal, he attacked the stones fiercely, pushing and pulling with all his strength. He was able to widen the opening only a trifle more. Disappointed, he sat back and moaned as he stared at it.

  It was tormenting him; it was torture. He had to get a bigger view. He looked about helplessly and then retreated from the opening, as though he were going to sulk. He continued to stare in its direction, but his frustration was turning into anger—a vicious, nearly uncontrollable rage. He flung something at the wall. He gnawed his teeth. He rushed it and scratched at the rocks, until he was exhausted from the effort and the tips of his fingers began to bleed. Then he curled up to rest.

  Just before he drifted off to sleep, something began to show itself in his mind. He saw his finger pressed into the opening, unable to go far or push the rocks further apart. But he understood that shoving it in there was the right kind of work. It was just that his finger was too soft and too short. His mind began to wander as fatigue took hold. But he was well along the way, for he realized that there had to be something else, something longer and stronger that he could shove into that hole and work back and forth, just the way he worked the rocks.