by Kevin Lucia
He had to squint at first to make out anything, because not only was the back room dim . . .
why aren’t you looking at these outside?
. . . but the room in the image was, much as the rest of the house, badly damaged by damp rot, the wallpaper blackened with water damage. No furniture was readily apparent in this shot, so he kept searching for something interesting . . .
There.
In the corner, mostly out of frame. A head. A horse’s head? With a handle sticking from its cheek. A rocking horse. A child’s room?
He peered closer. Couldn’t see the rest of the rocking horse because it was mostly out of frame, but he figured it was similar to most rocking horses.
He sucked in a deep breath.
A shadow.
Like the one in the window, from his first picture. It was also mostly cut off by his framing, but from this angle, it looked like . . .
The shadow.
Was riding the rocking horse.
His damp T-shirt suddenly felt ice-cold. He shivered. A handful of feeble explanations offered themselves, but most of them fell flat, if only because he now dimly recalled the window in that room facing away from the sun. No light streaming through it, throwing his or other shadows on the wall behind the rocking horse.
What was it, then?
Nothing.
An odd coloration of the wall.
A smudge on the lens.
Nothing.
But he quickly dismissed the notion of hitting the zoom to see if the shadow extended over the handle on the rocking horse’s head, forming the barest suggestion of fingers. He toggled to the next picture, instead.
why aren’t you looking at these outside?!
The room in the next image was more easily identifiable, if only because of the bookshelves— warped, crooked, several shelves broken—and an old rocking chair in the far left corner, also mostly out of frame. A sitting room of sorts. There were probably more bookshelves out of frame, maybe a table and a few recliners.
He zoomed in on the bookshelves, a cautious admiration replacing his uneasiness. It was a stirring shot of books—knowledge, understanding, intellect—destroyed by something so basic as time and the elements. Some of the books were intact, while others were swollen with damp, pages likely stuck together, ink smudged and unreadable. This was a good picture. He could already imagine the narration for it (a whole bit about time and nature overcoming knowledge) in his final project.
“Hell yeah,” he whispered as he panned left. “In the zone again, finally . . . shit!”
A streak of ice raced down his back, arrowed straight to his guts. His fingers failed. His precious Nikon tumbled from his fingers and landed with a dull thud at his feet. He blinked, and in a flash, he thought he saw the same thing he’d just seen in the camera floating in the yawning blackness of the basement door.
His neck tingled, heart pounding in his chest. He closed his eyes and counted to ten, squeezing his hands into fists so tightly his knuckles ached and his fingernails bit into his palms.
“Nothing,” he rasped, his voice sounding thin in the suddenly oppressive silence. “Nothing there.”
After a ten count he swallowed and opened his eyes, gazing into the emptiness of the basement doorway.
Nothing.
Except impenetrable darkness. But the ice still rippled across his shoulders and down his back. His heart still pounded away. Slowly, he knelt and picked up his Nikon without taking his eyes off the black doorway. He stood slowly, thought about turning and striding out, but opted instead for slowly back-pedaling one step at a time. For some reason, he didn’t want to turn his back to the doorway. He retreated slowly, as if afraid of waking something up.
Which was stupid and ridiculous.
There was likely nothing down there except mold, cobwebs and spiders, maybe a few garter snakes or rats. No ghostly face—which he thought he’d seen sitting in the rocking chair, peeking around the edge of the frame—was going to float out of the dark basement doorway any time soon.
so long as you don’t turn your back to it
Stupid.
But he kept backpedaling away from the dark, empty basement doorway. He didn’t see anything there, he didn’t.
His right shoulder thumped the door-frame leading out.
He yelped, spun, and scrambled out of the room. He reached with his free hand, grasped the rotten edge of the door and slammed it shut.
He stepped away from the closed door, telling himself he hadn’t seen darkness rushing across the room after him. No, the doorknob did not jiggle for an instant. It was only the residual vibration of him slamming the door shut.
Still, he felt much better with something between him and the yawning basement. Because shadows couldn’t grasp and turn doorknobs, could they?
but they can seep under doors
He shook off the foolish thought. Dammit, after a year of frustration he was finally taking good pictures. He wasn’t about to let a stupid case of the willies ruin it. As if in defiance of this, he ignored the bottom of the door . . .
which shadows could seep under
. . . held up the Nikon and looked at the next picture.
He sighed. It was the kitchen, what remained of it. He’d taken a picture of the sink. As he examined the photo, his fears subsided. A narration ran in his head about how everyday life had most likely centered around this now abandoned kitchen sink. Washing hands before dinner, dishes after. Getting a cool drink on a hot summer day . . .
His gaze slipped to the image’s bottom left-hand corner. He squinted and zoomed in on something that looked triangular and metal, lodged into the counter-top’s edge.
An axe?
He couldn’t tell.
And the dark stains on the blade and counter-top, were they shadows, or stains?
Of what?
He shook his head, closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Geez. I’m goin buggy. I gotta get out of here.”
When he opened his eyes he noticed two things which brought his goose-flesh rippling back. One: It was getting dark, harder to see.
Two: He didn’t recognize the room he was in at all. Empty, floor littered and gritty, wallpaper moldy, doorways to his left, right, and before him. The door to the backroom and the basement directly behind him.
Also, maybe it was a trick of the fading light, but he couldn’t see very far down the halls. Which was crazy, of course. How big could the house be?
He swallowed down his unease. It was only an old farmhouse. Didn’t matter which hall he took. It would eventually lead back to the front door.
Right?
Still, he couldn’t make himself step into one of the halls. He raised the Nikon and toggled to the next picture. Maybe there’d be a landmark he’d recognize, some image which might jog his memory.
out of frame
you’re out of frame
“Hell with that,” he muttered, holding up the Nikon.
The bathroom.
He’d centered this shot on the toilet. The sink next to it and the mirror above the sink were cut off at the frame’s edge.
He opened his mouth. To swear or gasp, he wasn’t sure, except he suddenly struggled for the breath to do either. In the mirror, along the frame’s edge, he saw a shadow.
Like the one in the outside window.
what lies cut off by the frame still continues off the frame in a reality created by the photographic device
He cleared his throat and said in a voice more whiny than defiant, “Screw it. I’m getting out of here.”
Which way, though? Which hallway? He could keep paging through the rest of these photos . . .
he didn’t want to because he thought maybe in each one the shadow of the thing hiding past the frame would get closer
. . . but he didn’t think looking at them would help him remember the way out. It hit him, then, with the force of lightning: The backroom. Where the empty basement door was.
and the shadow r
ushing toward him
He’d seen trees outside the one window. Maybe he could jimmy the window open, crawl through it and get out?
Maybe. Problem was, he’d have to face the basement door again, and whatever was waiting in the darkness below.
Click
Click-click-clickity-click
Icy fear flushed down his spine. The doorknob. Of the door leading to the backroom. Something was jiggling it on the other side.
No. It was something else, had to be.
But as he forced himself to glance over his shoulder, he caught a glimpse of the doorknob turning all the way with a final-sounding click.
The door cracked open.
Brian plunged forward, sprinting down the hall. His feet pounded on the old wooden floors, sounding strangely dull, underscoring how alone he was, that there was no one to hear or help him.
something crackled after him, like crisp autumn leaves skittering on concrete
He pumped his arms and ran harder, and yet, impossibly, the end never came. As if he were running on a treadmill, the end never got closer. Countless, innumerable open doors to infinite rooms flashed by and he couldn’t help seeing them from the corner of his eye.
shadows rushed toward him
lay on beds
dangled in nooses from crossbeams
swung axes
danced, flitted, cavorted
rocked on wooden horses and sat in chairs
lay in bathtubs
Shadows spun and twisted in those rooms while Brian pounded down the never-ending hallway, his breath roaring in his ears, his lungs aching as a stitch burned in his side. He wasn’t going to make it and the cold behind him was rushing closer.
With an explosion of breath he launched through the doorway at the end. He whirled, grabbing frantically at the door. In his desperation, his sweaty hands slipped on the old, greasy brass knob as something skittered and hissed down the hall.
His fingers closed on the knob.
He glimpsed wide black eyes and a wrinkled, snarling mouth rushing toward him.
Brian slammed the door shut.
Silence.
Except a high-pitched keening sound which, as he backed away from the door, he realized came from him.
He breathed air in sobbing gulps, backing away from the door. “Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Gotta get outta here.”
He spun, eyes frantically tracking the room. It was a den. Old, unused fireplace against the far wall. Three sagging couches facing the fireplace, what was probably once an ornamental rug on the floor between them. In the far left corner, a door. To his immediate right, a staircase curving away to a second landing. To his immediate left, the foyer.
Yes.
He recognized this room now. He’d started here, which didn’t make any sense at all, because he distinctly remembered a hall leading to many rooms, not a den, but he didn’t care because there was the foyer and past it the front door.
His relief morphed instantly to panic as his shoulder thumped against the foyer door. It wouldn’t open. The doorknob clicked uselessly in his hand. No matter how hard he twisted or turned it, laid his shoulder against the door, it remained closed.
Locked?
No, idiot. Stuck. Old house warped by the damp. It’s jammed, is all.
The window.
The front window. The first picture he’d taken was of the front door and the window next to it. He scrambled to the window, grabbed at its latches with trembling fingers, yanked upward.
Nothing.
The catch was still locked. Cursing, he fumbled with the catch, trying to flip it over—
Frozen. With rust and time, and the window frame was also probably warped, like the door.
“No problem, right?” He muttered. “It’s glass. We can break it.”
He glanced around. There, on the floor near one of the couches, was an old flashlight, a heavy, metal one. Proof other folks had been in here besides him, right?
but why leave a flashlight here?
He ignored the question and scrambled over to the flashlight and scooped it up. For some reason the cool metal tube felt reassuring in his hand. He leaped toward the window, winding up, but a bright flash stabbed his eyes. The sun? Coming through the glass at the right moment, blinding him?
“Geez! Shit!” Brian’s aborted swing fell short as he clapped his other hand on his eyes, rubbing them. His vision wavered and blurred, out of focus. He rubbed them harder. Stepped closer to the window, looked down the drive.
His heart skipped.
Like an engine run too hard for too long, his mind threw several gears as a black emptiness yawned beneath his feet.
The old flashlight fell with a hollow thud from nerveless fingers.
Outside.
Someone was standing down the drive toward Bassler Road, their back to him.
Brian gaped as he raked trembling fingers through his hair, pulling on tufts hard, trying to make himself wake up.
The person at the end of the drive turned suddenly, appraising the house with intense interest and excitement.
Holding a camera.
Brian rasped shallow breaths. He sagged against the window, hands pressed flat against the cold glass. The figure at the end of the drive held up his camera, presumably examining pictures he’d taken of the front door and window.
Brian slowly backed away, legs quivering. All his will leaked out of him and it took every ounce of reserve not to collapse into a huddled pile on the dusty floor.
The shadow.
The shadow in the window. The shadow he’d seen in his picture. The shadow was-it was . . .
The door to his left—the one he’d slammed shut on the rushing dark—rocked in its frame. The door knob jiggled once. The door creaked.
Fell still.
And slammed open. Something dark and vaporous and cold rushed into the room. There was nowhere left to run. Brian threw up his arms and screamed.
***
Brian Palmer shivered.
“This is it,” he muttered, staring at the picture he’d taken. “This is it. This is going to change my life.”
6.
The video on the camera’s viewfinder dissolved into snowy static. Remembering how it had looped before I picked it up, I frantically searched for its power button. Found it and switched it off before the person in the video could again start whispering excitedly about something changing his life.
The viewfinder fell dark and silent. Like the Magic Eight Ball, I wanted to throw the camera away. Didn’t want to touch the damn thing anymore, much less hold it. Instead, I gently turned it over in my hands, my rational mind slowly kicking into gear. There wasn’t anything strange about the video on the camera. Not at all. Whoever had owned it must have been making some sort of low-budget student film (although I couldn’t imagine anyone filming a whole movie on such a small camera) out at this place called Bassler House. Found footage movies were all the rage these days, right? Maybe they’d uploaded it onto their computer, edited it, added a cheesy horror soundtrack, then uploaded it to Youtube. Or, maybe the kid filming it had gone broke at some point, pawned the camera and forgot to wipe the memory card first. All explainable, right?
Right?
Yeah, I know. Not explainable at all, leaving way too many questions. All I can say is a part of my mind had switched off. From the instant I flipped play on the reel-to-reel, and heard whatever it was that I’d heard, a part of my brain (the part that tries to figure things out) went into sleep mode, like a computer’s hard drive does to save energy.
I hadn’t seen anything in the Magic Eight Ball. It had been a mirage. I’d just watched a lame experimental student film some college kid made with his camera, nothing more.
Of course, I had good reason not to ask many questions. Honestly, my memory had gotten fuzzy on how I’d gone from holding a .38 in my room at The Motor Lodge to driving aimlessly through this little hick town, with nothing in between. One minute, sitting on the bed, holding the gun. Nex
t minute, driving around, with no memory of how I’d gotten there. I didn’t want to ask questions about that, for sure.
Or about the .38.
So this is what I did: I gingerly set the Nikon back on the floor, as if frightened it might somehow turn on. I took a deep breath, pushed myself up on one knee. A wave of dizziness hit me. I closed my eyes and rubbed my face until it passed. When I felt a little better, I opened my eyes and stood, wobbling a little on unsteady legs.
Slowly, achingly, I walked to the door. Placed my hand on the glass, which felt ice cold, and gazed at the street outside, at the empty space by the curb where my rental had been parked.
My rental.
Which wasn’t there.
Instead of the panic you might expect from seeing no car where there should be one, several dull questions filled my head. What make had the car been? Model? Year? Color? Had it been a Standard, Automatic, or one of those cool Hybrids? Did it have GPS, or one of those EZ PASS sensors to get through tolls?
Each question bubbled up from the depths of my brain. Numb, directionless, with no answers. They bounced off a blank wall. I couldn’t remember.
Of course, I never thought much about the rental cars I drove. You know how many different cars I rented over the course of my old career? I always went with a mid-sized economy, nothing distinctive or unique, all the same. Like the motel rooms I’d slept in, all the cars I’d driven merged seamlessly into each other. Of course I couldn’t remember much about my rental. I never paid much attention to them.
Still.
It bothered me in a way I couldn’t put a finger on. I tapped the glass and muttered, “Was it a Prius? A Honda? A Toyota Camry? Did I drive here at all? Maybe I walked?”
Again, though I didn’t want to, I thought about The Motor Lodge. Me, sitting on the edge of the bed, holding my .38. Then me aimlessly driving a car I couldn’t remember through this strange little town. No memories in between of getting up and showering. No memories of getting into the car, starting it, or pulling out of The Motor Lodge’s parking lot. Nothing but a black fuzzy transition from the bed and the .38, to sitting behind the wheel of a . . .
Ford? Chevy?
I couldn’t remember. I backed slowly away from the door, thighs quivering. I felt as if I’d been ill with a fever for days. I wiped my mouth. My lips were cracked and sore. The lightheaded feeling was returning, black tendrils creeping along the edges of my vision. Something hid behind the creeping darkness besides unconsciousness, however. Something huge and I didn’t want to see.
