The Doorway

by Alan Spencer

  “Ahahahahahahahahahahahahah!”

  Hannah’s delight was grating to Morty’s ears. Cheyenne’s frantic choking noises told him time was burning fast in favor of his daughter’s death by strangulation. Her face was a violent shade of blue. How much longer before death claimed her?

  Enraged, Morty slipped one of his hands free of the mannequin’s hold. He swung, and he swung hard, winning a punch to the mannequin’s head on top of him. His fist was wedged between shards of broken plastic. Jerking his arm to reclaim his fist, he ended up throwing the mannequin backwards. The body was off of him, but a new body had already taken its place. Its painted-on pink mouth opened to reveal teeth like a snarling dog’s.

  Cheyenne’s struggles were slowing down. Enough oxygen had been deprived from the brain that she was starting to slip into unconsciousness. If she slipped, she would die.

  The flesh noose continued to boil and let off steam.

  So unreal. Morty couldn’t deal with the horror surrounding him. He kicked upwards and the attacking mannequin sailed up over his head. Rising from the ground, Morty thrashed aside the other mannequins until he was clear of them.

  Bruce warned him, “Morty, watch out!”

  Hannah was behind him, the skull-faced madwoman. She was about to drive a pair of steel sewing scissors into his back when Bruce swung a wooden chair. The chair caved in the top of Hannah’s skull. Her body dropped to the floor.

  The moment Hannah hit the ground, Cheyenne’s body was released. The liquid noose vanished. Hannah’s body hit the ground. It kept melting, the sound of it a sickening boil. The mannequins each toppled over and hit the ground with the sound of hollow plastic.

  Bruce set down the chair. Morty rushed to his daughter who was gasping for breath. She was alive, Morty thought, and thank God. Father helped daughter to her feet.

  Bruce’s gait was uncertain. He was still losing blood from the bullet he took to the arm, but the man was determined to help them stay alive.

  “What happened to Hannah?” Cheyenne asked them. “She turned into a monster. What did they do to her?”

  “First thing is finding out who they are,” Morty said. “Somebody tortured Hannah in this basement. I don’t know when they did it, or how, considering we each went through that doorway at the same time.”

  “This place isn’t right,” Bruce said. “It’s your house, and it’s not your house, Morty. Whatever that doorway did, it has warped things. That doorway is evil. It’s making things come to life. For God’s sake, Cheyenne was hanging by a noose fashioned from flesh. Explain how that’s possible. We’re not in a safe place anymore. We’re somewhere we shouldn’t be.”

  “Hannah said something about a murder,” Morty said, already understanding this house, this place, wasn’t right. That much was very fucking clear. “If this is my house, and we never left it, who died in my house? I still don’t know what happened to Glenda. She has to be here somewhere.”

  “If she’s here, she has to be dead—I’m sorry to say it, Morty. I know it’s hard to think in those terms, but on her own, how could she make it in a place like this? We’re barely holding up, and there’s three of us.”

  Morty was chilled by the thought Glenda was dead, but his best friend was right. It was very much a possibility.

  “Then where’s her corpse? Who were those people firing guns up there? We haven’t searched this house enough. We’ve only been in the basement. That doorway appeared for a reason. We were sucked through it for a reason. I still don’t know what Hannah was talking about earlier. Did somebody die in my house? If they did, I know nothing about it.”

  Bruce forced out a single note of wry amusement.

  “I guess the realtor forgot to tell you a few details. I just assumed you knew, Morty. When you moved into this place ten years ago, I kept my mouth shut. You and Glenda were so happy to get into a house you could afford. You bragged and bragged about the price as if you didn’t care this was the infamous Interrogation House. I didn’t put any stock into earlier, because I refused to believe this place was haunted, or that anything supernatural was going on.”

  Morty had to backtrack. “Excuse me. Wait a second. The what house?”

  Before Bruce could say anything more, the door at the top of the stairs opened.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Detective Larson was surprised when the door to the basement came right open. He was also taken aback by the three people standing at the foot of the stairs staring up at him with terror on their faces. Larson noticed at the middle of the staircase, several of the wooden steps were broken. The taller, bald man of the group had a bleeding arm. That was Bruce Spaniel. He recognized the other two as Morty Saggs and his daughter. The three of them were covered in blood. The detective couldn’t help but wonder what these people knew about the doorway, the house and the living corpses.

  The detective aimed his Glock at the three of them. “I want you upstairs right now. No tricks. If you’ve done nothing wrong, you have nothing to worry about. Now, if you would, please, come on up.”

  Larson whispered to Officer Wright, “Back me up.”

  The cop aimed his .28 pistol, the gun already in his hands before the detective had opened the basement door. The officer continued to be spooked. If the novice couldn’t handle basic police work, there was no way the officer was going to take on what was happening in this house, Larson thought.

  The three downstairs were slow to edge up the stairs.

  Larson spoke sternly. “Up the stairs. Come on. I don’t have all night. One behind the other.”

  “We’re moving as face as we can, Detective. We’ve had a long night ourselves,” Morty said. “One of you up there shot Bruce in the arm. Stray bullets were flying everywhere. What’s going on, huh? You care to tell us, or are we on a need-to-know basis, and we don’t need to know? Is it one of those bullshit police situations?”

  “This isn’t the time for sarcasm, Mr. Saggs. You did something to this house, and you’re going to tell me what.”

  “I did something to this house?” Morty hurried up the stairs. He was in the detective’s face despite the gun being aimed at him. “You had me pegged from the start, didn’t you? You think I murdered my wife, that I’m the one making red doorways appear out of thin air. Now you probably want to blame me for Hannah’s death as well. Why not blame me for her resurrection too? I have Christ-like abilities. All this time, and I never knew. A-fucking-mazing.”

  “Wait, Hannah’s dead?”

  Morty hesitated. “I think she’s dead. I don’t even want to try and explain what happened down there.”

  Larson didn’t like the way Morty was coming at him.

  What had happened to Hannah?

  The three were in the living room now. Officer Wright kept his gun trained on them. Nobody trusted anyone in this house.

  “I want you to watch these three, Officer. If they try anything, you shoot them. This is that kind of situation. You three sit on that couch. Relax. I’m checking out the basement. Don’t move.”

  “Don’t go,” Cheyenne said. “It’s not safe down there.”

  “I’m carrying a gun. I’m sure I’ll be fine. I appreciate the concern.”

  Morty scoffed when he sat on the couch. He had a “fuck it” expression on his face. So did Bruce. Cheyenne sat down only after warning the detective two more times that the basement was dangerous. The detective ignored her. He didn’t like unanswered questions banging around in his head, and the sight of blood on the three of them inspired many question marks.

  “Go ahead, Detective,” Morty antagonized. “Be a fool. If you start screaming in terror, I’m sure your buddy here will come to your rescue. They hire just about anybody to be a cop these days.”

  “No kidding,” Bruce chimed in. “The kid looks like he shit his pants. I’ve got two kids of my own, and I know what it looks like when
someone’s filled their shorts.”

  “Hey, fuck you,” Officer Wright barked. “Say what you want. Just do as you’re told. Sit down and shut up.”

  Morty raised a brow. “Wait, there were shots being fired from all directions earlier. There were more people in the house. I mean people were blasting each other left and right. Where are the other shooters?”

  Detective Larson was also going to tell Morty to shut up and be quiet when Wright answered the question.

  “Twelve other cops were with me, and, well, they were killed, and their bodies just up and disappeared.”

  Morty was incredulous. “They, what?”

  “E-nough.” Detective Larson stomped his foot. “No more questions. Nobody talks. If I hear a word coming from anybody, I’m going to cuff you to something, and considering what’s been going on, you don’t want that, do you? Okay. Now nobody says another word. I’m going downstairs to check things out. I’ll make it quick. Sit tight.”

  Larson eased down the rickety staircase. He thought if someone placed a lit match to it, the whole wobbly thing could burn in seconds. Three stairs were missing, reduced to broken tatters and blank spaces. Larson eased past the gaps. He was happy to hear nobody was talking upstairs. It took a professional to shut up people who were nice and worked up. Panic control was the key. Finding answers was another matter altogether.

  Nothing going on in this house made a lick of sense. He wasn’t a believer in the supernatural, but then again, he believed in what his eyes were telling him.

  His eyes were telling him a murder took place here.

  Hannah’s corpse lay on her side on the floor. Her head was missing. He couldn’t see her features through the glaze of black cherry splashed on her skin. Blood was spattered on the walls and the ceiling. Judging by how that wooden chair was tipped on its side and strewn across the room far away from the table, the detective considered that to be the murder weapon.

  What was on the table horrified him.

  Five nails were driven into the wood. On those nails were three fingers and a large hunk of meat and bones from a hand. He imagined the gristle of a devoured steak.

  A pang hit him. Warm with concern, Larson broke out in a sweat. A realization was hitting him hard. He recognized the basement. The placement of things. The washing machine and dryer. The archaic furnace that was a coal-black box waiting for wood to be thrown inside and burned. The corner with items a seamstress would use, including a work table and mannequins to fit dresses on. The mannequins were tipped over on their side. One had a broken head, showing through to the hollow plastic on the inside.

  Jimmy Loomis’s corpse in the fridge.

  This house.

  This basement.

  The table with the nails in it.

  Officer Wright describing a man wearing eye gear, a doctor’s mask and a painter’s suit.

  This wasn’t the place to be.

  Hannah’s corpse shifted on the floor. Her head squished when it craned itself up to look at the detective. Both her eyes were squashed in the sockets, but the ocular tissue still moved as if perceiving images.

  “Someone in this house knows who killed Deborah, and until they confess, Ted will interrogate each and every one of you. Do it your way, Detective, or Ted will do it his way.”

  The light bulb changed from yellow to electric red in two seconds. The red pushed him backwards. Larson stumbled against the stairs, landing hard against his back. Shielding his eyes, crying out in horror, it was several seconds before the red bulb turned back to yellow. When the change occurred, it didn’t make matters any better.

  It had made them much worse.

  Ted Lindsey stood under the light bulb, wearing that plastic eye gear, paper face mask and the painter’s outfit. A hammer was clutched in one hand. A bundle of six-inch nails were clutched in the other. The hulking six-foot tall man was breathing hard, his chest heaving, his breath under the mask audible, like a snarling dog’s.

  Behind Ted, the twelve missing officers, each white as corpses, their expressions vacant of humanity and replaced by vile evil, riddled with bullet holes and more insane damage, stood with torture tools in their hands. Wire ropes. Wooden buckets. Tongue pullers. Eyelid rippers. Leather whips. Archaic devices Larson had little knowledge of, but knew their purposes were purely for torture.

  “Find out who killed my wife,” Ted said, kicking Hannah’s battered and motionless corpse. “One interrogation down. I’ll give you some time to talk it over with the others. Get your facts together, Detective. I’m coming for the next one of you very soon. I have so many questions to ask everybody. Soon, it’ll be interrogation time again.”

  Detective Larson couldn’t move. He gawked at the officers he once knew, who were now covered in decaying flesh. Worms crawled in their sockets. They were torn up by bullets. Gangrene infection tainted the air. Some officers were pulling worms and insects from underneath their skin, digging in real deep to stop the infernal itch. Some didn’t even have heads or hands.

  The light bulb spat out that blinding crimson light once again with renewed intensity. Ted, the corpses and Hannah all vanished.

  The bulb’s light returned to normal.

  Larson was alone in the basement.

  He heard Ted’s jarring words on the air.

  “Soon, INTERROGATION TIME!”

  Larson ran up the stairs as fast as his feet would carry him.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Janet braved coming downstairs when she heard Detective Larson argue with someone that sounded like Morty Saggs. Could she really be hearing those men speaking? Janet took a chance and obeyed her first instinct to run to familiar people. She prayed for safety. Maybe these people knew the way out.

  The moment she came downstairs and found the three sitting on the couch and the young officer pointing a gun at them, Detective Larson shot up the basement stairs, slammed the door behind him and trained his gun at everybody.

  “Everybody does what I say. Nobody moves. I have to think for a minute.”

  Janet stood at the end of the stairs. Nobody had seemed to notice her arrival. She only got out three words, “Hello, I’m sorry—” when Detective Larson shot around, startled. He came at her and forced Janet onto the love seat.

  “Nobody sneaks up on me again, or you’re going to get shot!”

  Detective Larson was on edge. The man’s eyes were casing the people in the room. Everybody was a suspect according to those shifty eyes.

  “Where did you come from, Janet?”

  The answer was obvious. “Um, from upstairs.”

  “Goddamn it, I’m serious!”

  Morty realized who she was. “Wait, what are you doing here? It’s your fault everybody thinks I killed Glenda. I didn’t kill my wife. I don’t know what happened to her. Why did you do this to me, lady? That’s some underhanded shit you pulled writing that article.”

  Officer Wright stepped between Janet and Morty. “Calm down, Mr. Saggs, or do I need to mace you?”

  “I’m trying to get some answers about my wife, and you’re threatening me with mace?”

  Larson had zero patience. “You want to continue to be a problem, go ahead, Morty. I’ll laugh when he sprays that shit in your face. It’ll hurt like hell. Maybe then you’ll shut up.”

  Janet was scared of everybody in the room. She was beginning to think it was a mistake coming down from upstairs. Detective Larson’s dismayed face offered nothing in the way of relief. The young cop’s face didn’t offer any confidence either.

  Larson asked her, “How did you get here, Janet? Why would you be at the house when the rest of us were?”

  “I was tracking the case, or rather, I was tracking Morty, and I heard screams coming from the house.” She pulled out her 9mm to demonstrate purpose. “I came in the house fearing Cheyenne was going to die. Those screams were so intense. I
thought Morty killed his wife, then he was—”

  “I did no such thing to my wife! You bitch, you made everybody believe I was a killer, why, I should—”

  Wright removed the can of mace and waved it in Morty’s face. “Sit down, Mr. Saggs, or else.”

  “Fuck you all,” Morty said, angrily sitting back down. “I didn’t murder my wife. I didn’t. I thought this messed-up situation would prove it.”

  “Yeah, he’s innocent,” Bruce agreed. “We’ve been through a lot, but Morty’s been through the most shit. He still hasn’t found Glenda. You guys are pissing me off as much as you’re pissing off my buddy here with that kinda talk, especially you, lady. You call yourself a journalist, I call you a bullshit artist.”

  Detective Larson motioned for everybody to be quiet.

  “Stop it. I ask the questions. I do the talking. When I address you, you’re allowed to talk. Only then. Otherwise, be quiet. If anybody talks out of line, I’m allowing my partner here to shoot you with mace. I’m sorry for the harsh tactics, but I’m afraid we’ve got little time here. I need to find out what’s happening, and fast. If you don’t like it, tough shit, because it’s going to go the way I say it goes.

  “Now, Janet, how did you get here?”

  “I heard screams coming from Morty’s house. I followed the noises upstairs. I brought my gun to stop Morty from killing his daughter,” Morty growled under his breath but didn’t say anything, “and I ended up in his upstairs bedroom. A red light blinds me, and after that, I found myself upstairs in a room. I, this will sound crazy…”

  “Just tell me, Janet. Please. Everybody in this room has been served a heaping dose of crazy tonight.”

  “I’m suddenly in the upstairs room, but it’s not right. A woman’s dead body is on the ground. Then a corpse appears in the room with me. He said his name was Chris Neilson. Chris said the body on the floor was Deborah Lindsey’s corpse. Chris said I had to find out who murdered this woman, or else Ted Lindsey would kill us all.”