A Monstrous Place (Tales From Between)

by Matthew Stott

  The tree people had stopped their screaming after Mr Adams had fired his shot and destroyed one of their number. The lack of screaming was a relief, but the fact that their eyes had remained open and watched them as they passed disturbed Molly. Were they spying? Accusing? Imploring her to set them free? Or perhaps they saw and thought nothing at all. Either way, as she and Mr Adams made their way forward, all around them the wide eyes followed. Their gaze was steady, expressionless, empty.

  ‘There’s the chap!’ said Mr Adams as they finally stepped out of the crowded vegetation and found themselves at last in front of the Fisks house. ‘What d’you reckon then my girl? Circumspect or march in bold as brass?’

  ‘Through the front door, bold as brass,’ replied Molly.

  ‘Like your style,’ said Mr Adams, who checked his gun was loaded, then with a beckoning nod led the way.

  The front door opened with a creak, Mr Adams rifle poking through into the corridor beyond. ‘If you’re there show yourself and face a reckoning!’ said Mr Adams.

  Silence.

  The door was pushed open further and the pair stepped across the threshold. Molly shivered; the atmosphere was colder than before, like stepping into a fridge.

  ‘What’s that darned stench?’ said Mr Adams, his nose wrinkling in disgust.

  ‘It’s the smell of death,’ said Molly, grave.

  ‘All right, bit melodramatic little one, chin up.’

  ‘You’s in our house now,’ came Mrs Fisk’s voice. Molly took a step back as Mr Adams swung the rifle’s barrel from left to right and then up to the top of the staircase, but there was no sign of Mrs Fisk or her husband.

  ‘Playing silly beggars again are we, monster? Too afraid to step out and face what’s coming to you?’

  ‘The soil is hungry, Mr Adams. Oh, so very hungry and desiring it is for you,’ cackled Mr Fisk.

  ‘Come out here!’ said Molly, sounding much braver than she felt. ‘Come out here now, you bloody cowards!’

  ‘What says you Mr Fisk, husband of mine? Shall we give the girl what she wants?’

  ‘And spoils all our wicked, hell-ish fun, Mrs Fisk? I don’ts think so, oh no!’ And the pair laughed, dry and flinty.

  ‘Have it your way then,’ said Mr Adams. ‘We’ll track you down to wherever you’re hiding, like the craven cowards you are. We’ll overturn your stone and then we’ll dispatch the pair of you down into the fiery pit of damnation, you hear me monsters? Justice approaches! Can you hear the death knell strike? Listen for it, monsters, and listen well 'cos it strikes for you.’

  Mr Adams eyes were determined, but a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. ‘You’re actually enjoying this, aren’t you?’ asked Molly.

  ‘This is me. This right here, right now. Action. Danger. Standing up for what’s right. This is how I should have gone out, not old and put out to pasture to see out me days chewing the suburban cud. I should have wandered the dangerous walks of this world until me number was up or me ticker gave up the ghost and went kaput on me.’

  ‘Died a hero,’ said Molly.

  ‘No, not as a hero, just as me. The real, fully formed me. What now then, Molly?’

  She looked around at the deathly quiet house, her breath forming a fog in front of her face each time she exhaled. ‘They’re in here somewhere, hiding; we just need to check each room until we find them. And then....’

  Mr Adams fondly patted the barrel of his rifle, as though it were an old family dog. ‘And then it’s my bullets turn to find 'em.’

  They explored the ground floor first: the front room, the back room, the kitchen. They were all empty, yet Molly had the distinct impression that wherever they went, Mr and Mrs Fisk were watching them.

  ‘There was a detached head in the fridge,’ said Mr Adams.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Molly, remembering her first visit.

  ‘Said I would die screaming.’

  ‘It spoke to you? It didn’t do that last time.’

  ‘Yup. Bloody ghoulish it is. What next, down here?’ said Mr Adams, tapping the door to the basement with his rifle.

  ‘Let’s try upstairs first; we don’t want to go down in the basement unless we have to. There’s no place to run to get away down there.’

  ‘Smart girl. You’d have been a handy asset in my team you know. Good tactical brain that shows.’

  Molly felt herself swell with pride a little as they left the basement’s closed door and headed for the staircase. ‘Also, it really stinks down there,’ said Molly.

  There were no bloody handprints on the stairs, or the upstairs corridor, much to Molly’s relief. There were four rooms— three bedrooms and a bathroom— all empty. All completely empty. No beds or furniture of any kind, no carpet, no bath or toilet, nothing, all stark white and empty. Molly wondered if the same was true of The Fisks house in the real Awake world; did they only dress the downstairs to keep up appearances?

  ‘Well that’s that then,’ said Mr Adams. ‘Basement it is.’

  ‘Not yet, look.’ Molly pointed to the corridor ceiling. Mr Adams looked up to see a panel with a small, metal loop handle, large enough to fit a single finger through; it was the entrance to the attic.

  ‘Not ideal,’ said Mr Adams, as he reached upwards and pulled on the handle; the panel opened downwards and out folded a ladder. Mr Adams slung his rifle on its strap over his shoulder, spat on each hand and rubbed them together, then began to climb. Molly thought better of spitting on her hands before climbing after.

  The attic, as they are wont to be, was dark. Dust hung thickly and unmoving; it made breathing unpleasant and scratched at Molly’s eyeballs. ‘Mr Adams?’

  A click, and a weak, bare light bulb spluttered to life, barely casting enough light to illuminate a third of the attic space. ‘Here I am, girl,’ said Mr Adams.

  A floorboard creaked in the gloom.

  Mr Adams spun sharply, rifle pulled from his shoulder and into a firing position in one smooth, practiced step. ‘Who goes there?’

  Molly strained to try and make out any shapes moving in the darkened recesses of the attic, but it was useless.

  ‘Fire a bullet into there, that’ll move them,’ suggested Molly.

  ‘Waste of bullets shooting blind; you hold until you have eyes on a target.’

  Another creak, this time accompanied by a wheezing cackle, caught their attention once again; Mr Adams pointed his rifle back and forth at the secretive gloom.

  ‘Come out I say! Come, come. Only cowards hide,’ said Mr Adams.

  Nothing.

  All was still and quiet.

  ‘Right, then. Stay behind me Molly; time to advance into the dark.’

  ‘But you don’t know what’s in there,’ said Molly.

  Mr Adams smiled. ‘No, I don’t.’ He turned back to the darkened section of the attic and began to slowly step forwards, keen eyes scanning back and forth for any signs of life, for any signs of danger.

  A sudden movement beneath her feet caused Molly to take a step back in surprise. Had the floor just moved? ‘Mr Adams, did you feel that?’

  ‘Feel what?’ replied Mr Adams.

  ‘The floor, I think... is it moving?’

  Before Mr Adams could answer, the floor lurched. It was like a cat arching its back, the floorboards thrusting upwards, splintering and cracking. It threw Molly backwards onto the floor and tossed Mr Adams, with a yelp, headlong into the dark.

  ‘Mr Adams!’ Molly stumbled back up to her feet as all around her the floor ripped itself apart. The floorboards beneath her cracked alarmingly, then split apart beneath her like a vicious mouth opening. With a cry more of surprise than fear, Molly fell into the wooden toothed jaws. As she fell through the hole in the attic floor, she braced herself to slam onto the altogether more solid floor below, only to find that it too had torn itself open and through she plummeted, down, down, down through the ground floor and towards the basement.

  ~Chapter Twenty~

  It was dark and it stank. For a few
seconds Molly lay still on the pile of soil that had broken her fall, and tried to stop her brain from spinning. She sat up and looked around her; as before, the piles of soil were dotted around the basement area. She looked up to the ceiling; through three ragged holes she could see Mr Adams, still in the attic, peering down at her.

  ‘You okay down there, girl?’ said Mr Adams.

  ‘Yeah, I think so, are you?’

  ‘Probably skinned me knees, otherwise all fine. You alone down there?’

  Molly looked around again. ‘Yes. Yes I think so.’

  ‘Right, I’m coming downstairs. Hold fast!’ Mr Adams disappeared from view as Molly got to her feet.

  As before the basement reeked of mould and decay; the stench was so strong it was difficult to breathe without gagging. Molly moved towards the stairs that led up to the ground floor; she had to get out of there, despite what Mr Adams had told her to do. She could feel it in her gut that this was the most dangerous place in the house to be alone.

  ‘We sees you, Molly.’ Molly gasped and stepped back; it was Mrs Fisk’s voice.

  ‘Where are you?’ Molly turned in a tight circle, scanning the basement for signs of life.

  ‘We is seeing you, Molly.’ Mr Fisk now.

  Molly ran for the stairs, for the exit, but before she could reach them the dark red, fleshy wall to her right bulged and tore. Thick, black gunk poured from the gash in the wall as two creatures stepped out and turned to face Molly, blocking her escape.

  ‘Togethers at last, are we little Molly?’

  It was Mr and Mrs Fisk, but they didn’t look like the Mr and Mrs Fisk Molly knew from the Awake world. They stood twice as tall, their bodies a grotesque marriage of human and a tailless scorpion. They walked upon eight legs, sharp pincers snapped open and closed viciously at Molly at the end of long, thick arms. The only resemblance to the old couple to whom Molly had lived next door for years lay in their faces. They were stretched out and twisted, like they’d pulled on Mr and Mrs Fisk masks that were far too small for their heads. Their mouths were full of razor sharp teeth that chattered together as the pair wheezed and hissed dryly.

  ‘Stay back or else!’ Molly shouted.

  The Fisks cackled and snapped their claws. ‘Or whats exactly, little thing?’

  ‘Or else I’ll knock you out,’ said Molly, raising her small fists.

  The Fisks almost fell over laughing.

  ‘Laugh all you like, but you’re not putting me in your garden, not like Neil.’

  ‘Oh girl, we is not going to put you in our lovely garden, is we Mr Fisk?’

  ‘Oh no, no, and really no Mrs Fisk, our garden is too good for the likes of her,’ replied Mr Fisk, ‘What shalls we do instead then, wife of mine?’

  ‘I really think instead we’ll chop you all the way up and put you on the compost heap, that’s the place for the likes of you.’

  The Fisks laughed as they scuttled forward, claws snapping.

  ‘Molly! Molly girl!’ It was Mr Adams, rattling the basement’s door handle, but try as he might it refused to open.

  ‘They’re in here! The Fisks are in here!’

  Mr Adams was trying to shoulder-barge the door now, but it held firm and strong.

  ‘Oh he can huffs and puffs but he won’t get in,’ said Mrs Fisk, a grin showing off rows and rows of pointed teeth.

  Molly tried to dart past the pair to reach the stairs, but Mr Fisk swung out an arm and struck her in the chest with his claw, throwing her back onto a pile of soil.

  ‘You wont’s be going nowhere. This basement will be the last place you is alive in. The last place those eyes see before I poke ‘em right out and chew on them.’

  ‘Mr Adams! Help me!’ Molly, winded from the hit, scrabbled backwards, but all too soon found herself against one of the walls, its flesh damp and sticky and disgusting as it seeped through her clothes and onto her skin. Molly wanted to run from it, but the only place to go was forward and that’s where the Fisks were, moving with slow, deliberate steps, sharp teeth chattering, enjoying her fear. This was it. She’d failed. Determined not to go out cowering, Molly pushed herself to her feet and stood defiantly in front of the advancing Fisks.

  ‘Come on then you pair of ugly idiots, come and get me!’

  The Fisk’s laughed and hissed, snapping their claws in amusement. ‘Oh, brave one is it? Good, good; the brave ones always does the most screaming and crying in the end.’

  ‘So much delicious screaming and crying and begging for mercy where none can be.’

  ‘Now comes here, stupid girl. Comes and be torn apart.’

  A shot rang out and Mr Fisk staggered back, screeching, as his right shoulder spurted blood. The flesh walls surrounding them bulged and recoiled again and again as though the basement itself was in pain.

  ‘You get away from her, monster!’ Molly looked up to the hole in the basement ceiling; through it she could see Mr Adams, rifle now aimed at Mrs Fisk.

  ‘Yeah, Mr Adams!’ shouted Molly, punching the air.

  ‘Did they hurt you?’

  ‘No, I’m good, I’m okay.’

  ‘Hurts! Hurts!’ screamed Mr Fisk furiously.

  ‘You shoots my husband, is it?’ Mrs Fisk hissed with venom.

  ‘For starters; now hold there and take what’s coming to you, fiend.’ Mr Adams fired at Mrs Fisk, but with unnatural speed she darted sideways, dodging the bullet. She scuttled with ease up the side of the flesh wall and across the ceiling, reaching a clawed arm through the hole and grabbing Mr Adams ankle, yanking him forward. He tumbled through with a cry of surprise, landing heavily onto the same pile of dirt Molly had earlier.

  ‘Mr Adams!’ Molly dashed towards him.

  ‘My rifle!’ Mr Adams pointed to where it had fallen. Molly broke off to try and reach it, but a clawed hand snatched it up.

  ‘Maybe I shoots holes in you and your old body now, hey?’ said Mr Fisk, yellow gunk oozing from his shoulder wound, brandishing the weapon at Mr Adams.

  ‘Go ahead, monster, you don’t frighten me, shoot away,’ said Mr Adams.

  Mr Fisk laughed, before crushing the rifle in his claw as though it were made of cardboard, then tossing the now useless, crumpled rifle aside. ‘I is going to take you apart, old man. Tear you to tiny bits. Piece by fleshy, bloody piece. You will screams and beg for death, but you won’t get it, not for months and months.’

  Mr Adams reached for his belt on which were holstered his twin pistols, but Mrs Fisk had scuttled down the wall behind him and she grasped him painfully by the wrist in one of her claws, lifting him up off the ground like he weighed as much as a bag of sugar.

  ‘Unhand me, beast!’ Mr Adams shouted, his face twisting with pain.

  ‘Naughty, naughty old Mr Adams.’ hissed Mrs Fisk, taking the pistols and crushing them in her spare claw, ‘You wont’s be doing no more shooting in our house.’ She tore the gun belt from around Mr Adams waist and threw it into the dark.

  ‘Awful manners you has, trying to kills your gracious hosts,’ said Mr Fisk.

  ‘Put him down, you’re hurting him!’ said Molly.

  ‘That’s all that’s left for him and for you now, girls; hurting!’

  Mr Adams shook his spare arm and a thin blade slid from his sleeve. Grasping it tightly, he thrust the knife quick and hard into Mrs Fisk’s arm, grunting with the effort. She screeched in surprise, dropping Mr Adams to the floor. The flesh walls convulsed once again as Mrs Fisk recoiled in pain.

  ‘Few tricks up me sleeve yet, monster!’ said Mr Adams as Mrs Fisk batted the knife out of her arm and kicked it aside.

  ‘No arms up your sleeves soon though, not after I pluck 'em out!’ screamed Mrs Fisk, and she swung one of her claws at Mr Adams, striking him across the head and sending him sprawling to the floor, unconscious.

  ‘Mr Adams!’ Molly moved to help, but the flesh wall behind Mr Adams split like an open wound and a thick tendril uncoiled and wrapped itself around Mr Adams unconscious body like a python, dragging him into t
he wall itself and out of sight.

  ‘Bring him back! What is that thing doing to him?’ Molly demanded.

  The Fisks laughed and they laughed. ‘Keeping him safe for laters. You be the starter, then onto the old man for main course, yes? He may be olds, but so tough, so strong, he will stand up to a lot of punishment and fear and pain, and we have so very much of all three waiting for him. Now come here, weak little thing, come here now.’

  Molly looked around desperately as the Fisks scuttled towards her. She dove to one side as a claw swung, trying to grasp her by the neck. Molly rolled and found herself next to Mr Adams knife, slick still with Mrs Fisk’s yellow blood; she grabbed it. Looking up she found Mr Fisk looming over her and tried to roll aside, but he was too quick, wrapping his claw around her neck and lifting her up before him like she was nothing but a bug, ready to have its legs pulled off to see how long it could live without them.

  ‘Has you now, filthy child, we has you now.’

  Molly grew red in the face as the squeezing claw made it difficult to breath. She kicked out again and again but was too far away for her short legs to connect.

  ‘Looks how it wriggles and struggles, oh wife of mine. So desperate it is to cling to its small and meaningless life.’

  ‘Pluck, that’s what she has, you know, to come to our house, our true house that is. To come here and stands toe to toe, brave as you like. Pure pluck that.’

  ‘Oh yes, yes, pure pluck it is. Talking of pluck, which eyeball shall I pluck out first with me sharp, sharp teeth? The left or the right?’ And the Fisk’s laughed a dark, vicious laugh, Mrs Fisk slipping loose a long, forked tongue to lick hungrily at her lips.

  Molly was growing dizzy as Mr Fisk pulled her closer, his jaws opening wider and wider to expose ever more teeth. She waited, and she waited; she thought the panic might overwhelm her, but she stayed still and waited for her moment. A few inches more and she was ready. Knife grasped firmly in hand she struck out, driving it up to the handle into one of Mr Fisk’s eyeballs.

  An explosion of thick, black ooze shot from the injured eye and over Molly’s face. Mr Fisk staggered back screaming, releasing Molly to fall several feet to the floor.