by Mark Tufo
I cried out, begging it to stop, to cease, to just let me die in peace. It went on for hours, maybe days. My body would, at points, shut down from the stress, those brief dreams haunted by giant malevolent insects chirping their existence. I would fall asleep to the sound, wake up to the sound—my life was that sound—I could not think, I could not act. I prayed for deafness, anything that would take the pain away. My head didn’t just ache, it was misery and anguish added into the physical entity that this torture had become. Tears and mucus had flowed freely from my eyes, nose and mouth to the point where I had no liquid left within me to supply the pumps. The last drips had begun to dry upon me when I once again fell asleep. When I awoke, it took long moments before I realized that the sound had stopped, and there was only the heavy beating of my heart. Dehydration had sapped me of my energy, the murderous cacophony of my will. I felt like used gum smeared upon the cement of a city sidewalk: dirty, flattened beyond recognition.
I sat up and winced; my head was pulsing in pain. I wanted to be giddy at the thought of no more blistering noise, but I didn’t have the energy, and I was petrified it would come back. If it did, I was not sure if I could hold on to my ruined psyche much longer. The laser battery had died at some point; this I realized as I looked down upon my rifle some five feet away. Then it dawned on me: I could see the rifle. It was still dark, but like a cloudless, moonless night is dark. Not something I’d want to be traipsing through the jungle in, but worlds better than the crypt I had been in. I needed water, badly. Three days is the cutoff for water; I had to be pushing that. My heart thumped painfully in my chest. I couldn’t muster any spit for my mouth or throat, my joints ached, and fatigue was weighing me down. I even contemplated leaving my rifle where it was instead of wasting the energy to bend over and pick it up.
Ultimately, I grabbed it, the added weight nearly enough to pull me to the ground as I lifted it. Still, there was the familiar comfort in the weapon, even if I was confident that anything I faced in here would not be threatened by it. I walked. Didn’t care the direction; didn’t care if it was in circles or a straight line for eternity. I walked. To do nothing was death, and I could feel its presence. It hadn’t taken a totally vested interest in me yet, but it was curious.
“Fuck you,” I croaked. The sound was just “ffk ff,” as the rest didn’t have enough lubrication to form. But the intent was there. I stumbled forward—or what I hoped was forward—at this point I couldn’t tell, and I’m not sure it mattered. Moving meant I wasn’t dead. The light was growing, but at a glacial pace. I’d not realized it was getting brighter until I could see ten feet out, then twenty. It didn’t matter, though, nothing changed. Nothing revealed itself, no enemies, no friends, and no exits. In the light, it was much the same as the dark, one vast nothingness. I was weary to a point I could thus far never remember having been. I was moving only because I couldn’t stop. It made no sense, but was the truth, nonetheless. Then there came the point where I couldn’t. I’d hit a wall, not literally, but it might as well have been. The hunger was a gnawing pain in the pit of my stomach, but the thirst…that was something I cannot describe. I fell, turning my head at the last moment. My breathing was ragged; it should have been cause for alarm, but what was the sense? That would just take more energy.
I felt the sensation of moving, or maybe the room I was in was flowing past as on a screen. I’d always assumed the Final Journey would be free from pain; so far, that was not the case. I didn’t pull my head up to watch; the view was just fine from down there. When I got the sense I’d stopped, I craned my neck to lift my head.
“Door,” was all I could think; maybe I’d said it aloud, doubtful. I tried to get up, but I could not get my legs, which were convulsing, under my control. I pulled myself onward, elbow over elbow. I hoped the door did do its vanishing act because there wasn’t any chance I would be able to reach up and grasp a handle—if there was one. I fell through it, some three feet, onto cool, dewy grass. I turned and sucked at the blades like a newborn calf its mother’s teat. It was blissful, a feeling I don’t think I could replicate if I wanted to, which I very much would not. I pulled the glistening drops into my mouth, reveling in the splendor of the liquid on my tongue. I wormed my way through the tall grass, drinking every bit I could get to. I’d crawled more than twenty feet before I felt I’d got enough to lubricate the muscles in my legs. There was a house, maybe twenty yards ahead of me. I recognized it, though I don’t think I’d ever been there in my life. I got to my knees, swayed a little in a non-existent breeze.
“Ready for this?” I asked my legs. My knees squealed in protest as I put weight upon them. It was a modest home, log siding and a deck that wrapped around two sides. I got the sense no one lived there. The uncut lawn was a big indicator, but there was more. It had that lonely feeling, a house that had never become a home, or possibly it had once been filled with love and mirth and like all things, it had changed. It took me over five minutes to traverse the three steps; I leaned heavily against the railing as I more pulled myself up than climbed. The doormat welcomed guests, but only if they brought beer. I liked it here already.
“Need help,” I called from the threshold. The door was open, but just in case someone was there, I didn’t want to give them a reason to put a hole in me. There were leaves strewn all over the front entryway. “Anyone?” I stepped in, the dried leaves crunching underfoot. Ahead of me, through a small hallway, was the kitchen. “Getting water,” I announced to anything listening. No one was there, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched. There was an island between me and the kitchen sink. I navigated around it with one hand firmly pressed on the surface to keep me upright. I pushed the lever backward and was rewarded with the gurgling of pipes that had no liquid to spill. Either the well had dried up, or the home had been winterized and all the water pulled out before it could freeze. Maybe it was a vacation home that someone had not yet come back to…and possibly may never do so.
It was two steps to the fridge and the little reserves I’d built back up were beginning to flag. It looked like a cross-country run from where I stood. I made an awkward stride and opened the fridge, got punched in the nose with the pungent smell of rot. All I could see were a variety of browns and greens from food that had long ago become something inedible. The only liquid was half a bottle of what the label described as orange juice. It now resembled something released from the far end of an elephant that had eaten bad tacos. Even still, there was a part of me that said “…the risk is worth it…” I bitch slapped it hard. I shut the door fast. I had to grip the island with two hands as the world began to swim around me. It was one of those head rushes you get in the summer when you stand up too quickly from an extended stay on the couch, like that, but orders of magnitude worse. When I could finally look up again, I was looking across the kitchen at a small pantry; I’d passed it in my haste to get to the sink. I was now looking at a bottle of seltzer water, typically something I wouldn’t even give to a cat let alone drink myself, but right now, it was the holy grail. Each shuffling step was a pilgrimage as I worked my way there. Almost cried as I reached for it. My hand didn’t close around the top properly, and it teetered on the edge; if the bottle broke upon the tile floor, there was a good chance I wouldn’t have enough left, physically or emotionally, to look for something else.
I cradled that bottle in my hands as if it were a newborn. I slid down the island, my ass hitting the floor hard. I grasped the cap; there was a moment where I didn’t think I’d be able to spin the top off, but the hiss of gas heralded my relief. When it finally happened, I sucked down half the bottle in one quick draught, then puked it back up just as fast. I looked longingly at the stringy puddle of water I’d made next to me. The rest I sipped slowly, letting my body acclimate to what was now a foreign substance. I was panicking as I was getting down to the final sips, then I laughed as I looked past the front of my boots; there was an entire case of Holland Water bottles. I sat there until I’d drunk
five of them, water sloshed in my belly, and I’d topped my bladder off. The change in how I felt was marked. I looked to the left; there was a bathroom, but if it was anything like the fridge, there was a good chance I’d be scarred for life. I pulled myself up and headed back outside, pissed off the deck and into the yard.
Once those pressing needs were quashed, I started to think about food. I went back to the pantry to browse the wide variety of NutriSubstance products.
“You have got to be shitting me. Of all the houses I stumble upon, I find one where the inhabitants were dieting. Okay…gift horse and all that,” I said as I started unwrapping things called Nuffin’ Tops and Protein Bombs. They were dry, flavorless, and…intoxicating. I’d not learned my lesson with the water. In ten minutes, I had a stomachache that cramped me over. I had to breathe through it, much like I figured women did during labor pains. I walked, hunched over, to a living room with a vaulted ceiling. There was a dusty old couch which I sat upon, or slouched into, my legs far out in front of me on the floor. I was looking out toward the back of the house where I had watered the plants. A fireplace was to my left, and behind me was a balcony that looked over the entire room. I turned quickly when the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. No doubt something had been watching me, as I definitely caught movement. Whatever it was had shot into the shadows quickly.
I wasn’t alone, and I couldn’t tell if I was happy about that fact or not. If what was upstairs meant me harm, it had plenty of time to make good on that. Even so, instead of checking it out I sat on the fireplace hearth so that I was looking up. I waited twenty minutes, mostly for my gut to settle down into something more along the lines of being overly full instead of wanting to bust through the seams. Nothing had shown itself yet, and now I was going to do what everyone in the audience, if this were a movie, would be shouting at me not to do: go upstairs. In my defense, though, I was not going into an unlit basement, a boiler room, or an abandoned mineshaft. I started up the stairs. I thought maybe I heard the patter of small feet; now that sent goosebumps rocketing up over the top of my scalp. If this was going to end up being one of those terrifying nightmares, it would be a young ghost girl because, for some reason, that was about the creepiest thing ever. Or maybe a dog-sized spider—that would be pretty bad, as well. Or a girl clown…or a spider with a clown’s head. Three steps up and I had sufficiently paralyzed myself from wanting to go any higher.
“Stay or go, Talbot.” I looked at the entryway and the door I’d come in and then up the stairs. I was fully expecting a face to be peering back at me from the shadows, and I was thrilled when there wasn’t. I don’t usually start referring to myself in the third person, but when you’re devoid of company, it’s nice to know there’s someone else there with you. I seriously asked myself the next question. “What would Talbot do?” Unsure as to why I didn’t already know the answer. Anyway, I started up the next step.
“Coming up!” I yelled. “I won’t hurt you,” I said as I gripped my rifle. “I’d appreciate the same consideration.” No response. I got to the top of the stairs, hardly aware that I’d done it. I was looking at a short hallway, a door to my right, and another straight ahead. Both were closed. I mean sure, why wouldn’t they be? It wasn’t overly dark, but there were enough shadows to make this venture interesting. I hit the nearest light switch; there was a soft pop as the bulb flared bright and died.
My gut told me that whatever was in this place with me was behind the door at the end of the corridor, but tactically, I had to check the one on the right first. I didn’t want to get cut off from my only avenue of escape. I grabbed the knob, turned it, and pushed the door open as I stepped back to the wall on my left. This is where I fully expected a three hundred pound, axe-wielding clown to come crashing toward me. I was pretty close to shooting first and asking what circus he worked for later. I’d pushed so hard, the door hit the stop and came back with enough force to close again. My brief gaze into the area yielded no monsters but plenty of creepiness. There were shelves of eyes looking back at me, yeah, they were housed with dolls. Honestly, that made it worse. At least two display cases worth of nightmare fuel.
“Fuck.” I opened the door again, pushing on it much more gently. My eyes had not played tricks on me. There were Barbies, traditional baby dolls, monster dolls, dolls in wedding dresses or gothic outfits, dozens—maybe as many as a few hundred—all staring at me with that sinister, plastic, thousand-yard stare. Besides the wraparound display cases, there was one small table with a sewing machine on it, no chair, and a closet, again with a closed door. I wasn’t sure how much more of this crap my heart could take. It was already in overdrive; I felt the flush of adrenaline flow down my arms and up my neck in that agonizing, itchy way it does. I moved quickly into the room and looked behind the open door, the only other place someone or something could hide. I was having a difficult time with trigger discipline.
Next came the closet. I took a breath and exhaled it quickly, grabbed the knob, and again stepped back. There was a loud report from the round I fired as faces fell out toward me. I blew the head off a doll; I don’t think it was going to be a problem as there were another thirty of them. They tumbled in a small arc, some coming to a rest by my boots. I jumped back a step, not wanting to touch them.
“What kind of place is this?” Dolls creeped me out. People that collected dolls creeped me out. If the only representation of a person they could deal with was small and inanimate, it was safe to say they weren’t going to be a social butterfly. But the room was clear, and I felt I could breathe again. Of course, that changed when I went back out into the hallway and the door to the other bedroom was now open. I was trying to figure out if whatever was there could have run past while I was dealing with the macabre avalanche of disturbing effigies. I quickly came to the sad conclusion that a herd of elephants could have sauntered by and I wouldn’t have noticed it.
“Nice containment, man,” I berated myself. I moved closer to the open door. I couldn’t even use the “I won’t hurt you” line because I’d already fired a bullet. That made anything else I said clearly suspect.
The next room was about as regular as you could get. King-size bed, two nightstands, a bureau, a television hanging on the wall. All was on the up and up except for the mattress atop the bed. It looked like Freddy Krueger slept there and had suffered massive night terrors of fending off angry wild geese. What I’m trying to say, perhaps not making abundantly clear, is that the mattress was torn to shreds. A team of samurai would have had a difficult time tearing that bed up to that degree. Bedding material was strewn around the room like cotton shards. There was a door on the other side of the room that led to the bathroom. I now faced the plight of checking there, the closet (which was closed), or under the bed first. It was safe to say whatever was in here was armed with some sort of bladed weapon. It never dawned on me to think it had been from claws, and good thing, too, because I might have left then and there. I moved across the room with speed, poked my head into the bathroom. No one was on the throne, but the white, not see-through, curtain to the shower was pulled closed.
Red flag right there. Unless you’re in the thing, there’s no need to have the curtain closed. And anyone who has ever seen a horror movie knows that’s the perfect hiding place. Thank you, Alfred Hitchcock, for talking that last bastion of perceived safety away from us. I wanted to pop two rounds straight through that offending curtain. Would it matter if it was a monster or a kid? None of this seemed real anyway. I mumbled, “fuck” before advancing. Rifle in front of me, I used the barrel to quickly push the shower curtain to the side. There was a five-foot-tall stencil of a marijuana leaf on the tile wall, ten shampoo and conditioner bottles were on the floor of the tub, and a bong was sitting atop the soap tray.
“Trip?” I was reaching out to touch the mural when I heard a crashing noise behind me. I spun, and in two steps I was standing in the doorway. The closet door was open, though I did not see what had done it.
“Mik
e? Jack?” a voice yelled from downstairs.
“Upstairs, BT! Something’s in here with us! I’m coming down, don’t shoot me!”
“Depends.” Not sure if he meant for me to hear that.
I did a quick sweep of the room, steering clear of the bed. I had a gut feeling if I got too close something would grab my ankle, pull me over and then under. I wanted to run, but I didn’t want to run into anything. I pulled the bedroom door closed and noticed that the door to the other bedroom was now closed as well. “Not a fan of the fuckery,” I said as I moved past it and to the top of the stairs. I fully expected something to rush me and try to shove me from behind. BT was at the bottom of the stairs, looking up and past me.
“Freaking me out, man,” I said as I descended.
“What’s that room?”
I didn’t even know what he was talking about until I turned and looked. There appeared to be a crawl space above me; I’d missed it somehow.
“No idea. You all right?”
“I don’t know. I was not…in a good place.” His words were spoken in a halting manner as if to even think upon them hurt. “Where are we?”
“I don’t know. It’s strange, and something is in here with us, most likely dangerous, but it’s still better than where I was.”
“Jack?”
“Don’t know.”
“I can’t believe Kalandar made a deal to burn us.”
“I feel like I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am. I’m not doing such a good job of flushing out whatever is living in here; I need you to stand at the top of the stairs, and I’m going to go through the rooms again. You ready?”
He nodded.
“You look like you’ve lost a few pounds.”
“This a joke?”
“I’m serious, man.”
“Yeah, it only took an apocalypse. All things considered, I’d rather do yoga.”
