by Troy McCombs
The Hispanic man followed the black man into the next room.
***
The hallway was nothing like John remembered. It was wider and longer than before, consisting of about seventeen doors on each side instead of twelve. There was just enough light shining through the window behind the men for them to make out the pathway. Knobs glistened faintly, virus-shaped dust particles swam through the air, and there appeared to be no visible end to the hall. It looked infinite. The room where Lucky had found the hairless creature was now a void so black it made both men reluctant to proceed. They set down their encumbering equipment and looked at each other.
"Okay, Bill." John took a deep breath. "One room at a time. We stay close the whole time, never more than two doors apart. If you see anything funny at all, just yell. And don't stop talking to me, no matter what. If anything happens, run to get me, and if you can't, get out of this house. Do you understand?"
Bill nodded and looked down into the everlasting darkness, which actually seemed to be growing closer. He had never been this scared before, not only because he was unfamiliar with this territory, but because he pictured something in one or any of these rooms being worse than death, itself.
"Remember, don't break communication. That's the most important thing."
"I won't."
"I start in the first room on the right, and you on the first room on the left. Okay?"
Bill nodded. John gave him a comforting smile that didn't comfort him at all. "Let's go."
They walked forward together, the old chewed floorboards beneath their feet sinking slightly under their combined body weight. In the far distance, past the utter blackness, there were strange subterranean sounds barely distinguishable from their present location. Both men shined flashlights, but neither beam succeeded in capturing anything but brass, wood, and plaster. Their shadowy figures crept along toward the first two doors set right across the way from one another. Both were closed, behind which lie dormant secrets neither man knew if he should have disturbed. John grabbed one knob, and Bill the other. They turned them simultaneously. The doors creaked open. Gusts of warm air shot out from the expanding cracks, brushing past their face. They paused, then stepped into the rooms. As soon as their bodies completely cleared the hallway, both doors slammed shut on their own with one loud bang.
Chapter 9
George's dimming flashlight lit up an old gas stove covered in some type of blue rust. It was shiny, discolored, and smelled like copper. Tiny pinpricks of silvery aluminum glistened in it like a child's glitter. While George examined it, Bud examined the rest of the small kitchen, which was hardly bigger than a small bathroom. The rotten table was broken in half, the middles resting against each other on the diseased-looking floor. Cabinets were engulfed by mold and ivy. The brownish-orange sink was filled with dark, intricately-designed, spider-like webbing. The only available light besides their mag-lights was the glare of the sun through the cracked backdoor window, which overlooked a small yard bordered by a row of trees.
"Maybe this house isn't so bad after all." Bud licked his lips with his big tongue. "I mean, besides the skeleton in the closet, there really ain't nothin' here. Come on; let's go explore the back couple of rooms.”
That's exactly what Bud went to do. George caught up with his counterpart in a narrow hallway sandwiched between the basement and back door.
Right as they exited the kitchen, a swarm of disgusting, glowing red insects scurried out of the sink, their fanged little mouths oozing pulsating white saliva. One second sooner and both foreign life-forms would have spotted each other.
"Well, if we do a job, then we better do it right," George scolded him as they entered the pantry, a small corner room on the far northwest side of the house. Old, black clothes littered the floor here. Broken pipes jutted from one wall. The backdoor was barely intact.
"You sayin' I don't know how to do my job, kid? I checked the kitchen just like you. I almost saved your ass back there in the living room. You owe me."
"For what? Putting me in danger?"
"Da' fuck you talking about?"
George pointed to the gun in his pocket.
"Lighten up. It's for protection."
"It's a threat—"
Bud interrupted him: "A threat to what? This house? Like that stupid psycho mumbo jumbo upstairs? Ewwww, the house is alive. It's gonna kill us all." He waved his hands around sarcastically. Just when he did that, there was a deafening crash from below ground, as if a slew of objects had been knocked over by a strong force. But what was the source of it? Both men demanded an answer.
"What in the hell was that?" Bud turned back toward the tall, closed, beaten basement door. His big dark eyes got bigger.
"Maybe something fell." George followed his gaze.
"That wasn't a fall. Sounded like a wild animal throwing around a row of garbage cans." Bud extracted the gun and aimed his flashlight down the dim, shadowy hallway. George tried to aim his light, but could not get it to come back on. So only one beam captured the discoloration of the parted, medieval-looking door; only one beam lent them vision to the chipped brass knob shaped like a lion. They slowly approached it, their pupils dilating as they farther progressed into the murky darkness. Faint rustling sounds seeped through the crack, and large pounding thuds from below, reverberated through the floorboards. Whether ghost or human, plant or animal, something below was moving around restlessly. Loudly.
"You go first." George motioned for Bud to proceed. Both men stepped up to the entrance.
Boom!
Boom!
Boom!
The door jostled with each rumble.
"How about you go," Bud said, more of a demand than a question.
George shook his head. "I ain't the one with the gun."
Bud handed it to him. But George shook his head again. "Hell no. I'm not the one who didn't follow important orders. I ain't the one acting like a horse's ass, either...Bud."
The Negro looked like he wanted to punch the Mexican. He even clinched the flashlight tightly in his hand. Instead, he reached forward, grabbed the cool knob, and turned it, cocking and aiming his favorite pistol in his whole arsenal.
The door slid open. It did not creak, did not whine, it just clacked against the wall. Below, the basement was pitch black. There wasn't a spec of light except for the mag-light beam, and it only lit the first five steps down. It was another human sense that first caught Bud's attention.
"What's that smell?" He struggled to see farther into the abyss.
George thought about it for a minute. It was an earthly odor, plantlike, and reminded him instantly of vampire legends. "Garlic."
"Why in the fuck does it smell like garlic down here?"
"How should I know? Wait."
"What?"
"The sounds...they stopped."
Before either man could blink, something large, green and slimy streaked across the beam of mag-light, knocked Bud off balance, and sent the basement door crashing into George's face, where it broke his nose and knocked out some of his teeth. He fell backward on his ass, whereas Bud fell forward, tumbled down the flight of basement stairs, and disappeared into the shrouding blackness. During his brutal descent, something sticky wrapped around his leg and yanked him to the very bottom.
"Jesus fucking Christ! It's got me! Something's down here! Heeeelp!"
***
"John! John! Hey!" Bill cried, pounding on the oak door with the bottom of his fist.
Across the hall, the psychic did exactly the same thing, but neither man could hear each other. It was because they were no longer in the same place on earth.
John raised his head when he saw a glimmer of reddish-brown light bouncing off the door he was facing. It was a dull, static glow, brighter yet dimmer than the beam of the flashlight in his hand. Slowly, quietly, he turned around to face the room in which he was trapped. It was completely empty, without windows. The brilliant, wicked light that shone on him was coming from no direct p
oint, but seemed to come from every direction and out of the air, itself. It wasn't just that—a light—it was the aura of something despicable. It was the aura of the thing in John's dream. It was aura of the Master of the Mayberry House.
Across the hall, Bill had his own encounter with the unexplained. A greenish, yellow light lit him up from behind. This one, unlike the other, flickered like a candle flame. He turned, much more nervously than John had, and shined his flashlight around the room. It, too, was empty, devoid of furniture, and windowless. But then it wasn't empty. Things began seeping through the barrier that separated earth from the otherworldly. In Bill's eyes, many things passed by his vision like apparitions through a murky fog. And the fog wasn't even that murky. He saw fields of oddly-shaped hay growing out of rippling waters; flying objects, or animals, soaring through the cloudless skies beyond the ten-foot ceiling; vibrating shapes of undisclosed matter and symmetry moving horizontally instead of vertically through a distorted plane of existence. He saw things that could not be, but were in ways that currently are. Everything was visually insubstantial; he could see through everything since none of it was physically bound. The sounds that accompanied the sights made the experience far more intimidating. Some did minor biological harm to his internal organs just by his listening to them. Others made him feel euphoric. He felt like he was back on an acid trip. For a moment he wondered if he was sixteen again and was just hallucinating the present. Everything fled his mind when he heard a familiar voice call his name..."Biiiiill!"
He dropped his flashlight and almost choked on his saliva. He had not heard that deep, grainy old Texan voice since he was eleven going on twelve...the day his grandfather had died.
***
In the pantry, George sat motionless where the hall met the basement door, gazing into the void, wondering just what had hold of the man. He could see nothing whatsoever, but could hear the thrashing sound of Bud's body being thrown around recklessly, and the wet, slithery sounds of some large creature shifting about. He had no idea what to do. He had not been trained to deal with any situation remotely like this.
Thirty feet below, Bud slammed into the walls, the ceiling, the floor, unable to see so much as a shimmer of light. His leg and arm were already broken, his head was bleeding profusely, and his body was covered in cuts and bruises. The tentacle was wrapped around his ankle so tightly that it dug into his bone. The smell of garlic was sickening. It was not exactly garlic, it was something that just happened to smell like it.
"Get my gun! Get my gun! Get my fucking gun!"
George did nothing, did not move a muscle. The gun actually lay on the second step down from the top, but he could not see it. It was drenched in darkness. He probably wouldn't have seen it had a spotlight been shining on it. He just sat there stupidly, listening to the pleas of his distressed colleague growing fainter and weaker. The noisy movement of the large beast grew louder. Deafening and violent. George was surprised nobody else heard it. The floorboards beneath his ass were shifting and splitting.
"Get meeeeee--"
Bud's body slammed against a wall so hard, the concrete foundation cracked. Three more bones in his leg broke. Blood oozed from many new orifices. His mind spun. His eyes rolled. The only thing he could do was utter small, insignificant groans. Then, suddenly, he was set free. The thing let him go and went quiet. Pain burrowed through the man's form. Fortunately, he could now see.
The flashlight, which had been knocked to the bottom during the intense struggle, was lying four feet away from him, its beam illuminating a fruit cellar door behind the staircase. Bud could not hear a sound.
"He—some—can—I –” he groaned.
Slowly, cautiously, he reached for the flashlight. His arm was bent at an awkward angle, and four of his fingers were broken in multiple places. George could now see a glimmer of light bouncing off the floor and lighting up Bud's face. He looked like some subhuman monster all bloodied up. Definitely not the same healthy specimen who came into this terrible house.
"I'm fucking dying here! Where the hell are you? Somebody! Anybody! Chriiiist!!"
Nobody came to save him. The only man who could have didn't even try. In fact, he was ready to bolt for the front door. He knew well enough that the beast below was not yet gone.
Bud's injured fingers managed to touch the flashlight but not clutch onto it. He reached out farther, putting stress on his elbow, trying to grab his only source of illumination. Bones popped, skin ripped. He clenched his teeth in response to the pain.
At last, he grabbed it. With a quick turn, he changed the long, direct beam into a short, more diffused one. The tungsten lit the steps, the gun, and the cowardly soldier sitting at the top. Anger simmered immediately.
"You pussy mother fucker! I swear to God, when I get out of this God-forsaken house, I'm going to beat the shit out of you. Jesus, help me! Do something!"
George still did nothing.
"SOMEBODY!" Bud screamed, blood dripping from his mouth. He shouted for help over and over again, until George got so sick of hearing it, he covered his ears. A very bad feeling was brewing in the pit of George's stomach. He didn't want to stay put; he didn't want to move, either. Fear had him locked in an immovable grip.
Bud stopped his consistent pleas after a few minutes, when his throat began to burn from excessive use. He shined the light away from George and around the basement. There were rows upon rows of metal shelves cluttered with strange and ancient machinery; walls plastered with dusty, intricate blueprints of some sort of exotic invention; the floors covered in rust, broken rubble, and garbage. It didn't resemble a basement; it looked like some kind of make-shift laboratory.
"What in the fuck is this place..." Bud muttered in the dark, his curiosity escalating. He continued shining the light around. It lit up a work table, a sensory-deprivation tank, and a small silvery crystal pyramid...which was suspended in thin air by itself. No string held it up, and no base rested beneath it. Soon, it was something else that really caught Bud's eye and relieved some of the built-up tension in his battered frame...
The other basement door, one that led to the backyard. Freedom. Only a mere twenty yard crawl away.
Slowly but determinedly, he wormed his way toward it, climbing across the cold dirty cement floor. Pain throbbed through his every muscle, especially his elbows, which he used to pull himself forward. The mag-light wobbled in his right hand, but the beam never strayed from the celestial exit not far away. The door was made of cast iron, arched, nearly big enough for his wife's obese aunt to fit through. He could almost already smell the sap of the blooming trees, feel the soft gust of spring wind, and hear the chirp of the afternoon birds...
But that was as close as he came to ever experiencing nature again.
Chapter 10
"I know you're here." John examined the room for a presence. The omnipresent light shifted to another color he'd never seen before, and a faint breeze from no known source ruffled his clothes, his hair, and blew through his body as if he, himself, were a ghost. The air was neither hot nor cold, but of some unidentifiable temperature he felt only in his bones. What brought it, and the light, was the ultimate incarnation of evil...a nauseating, grotesque entity even worse than the demon he had encountered years ago. This was older than demons, maybe older than earth, itself, and exuded intelligence unlike any spirit he'd come across. It didn't have reason in any earthly sense, it didn't have feelings like mortal men, and it didn't have an ounce of pity for anything low on the food-chain.
Before John's eyes, the entity formed from a barely-visible, wavering white apparition to a more profound, transparent, bubbling mass, and then to a red, bulky, shapeless blob-like figure with no features and no limbs.It took time for it to grow, to solidify into physical matter. The unpleasant sound it made as it passed through dimensions wreaked havoc on John's ears. They began to bleed like Lucky's had only days ago. It was not slipping through worlds; it was forcing its way through them. This thing was, indeed, the cr
eator of the nightmares he had been having, and the real reason this house had been a horror to anyone who'd entered.
"Roooolliiiings..." it whispered his name, its voice black and powerful. John continued watching it conform to this limited reality…
Its horrible, multi-jointed limbs broke through its sharply-textured flesh; its head tore through the bottom of its squirming body; its tail popped up from the top of its behind. The creature was somehow upside-down and right-side up all at the same time. It was hanging from the ceiling, unbound by gravity, unbound by many human limitations. Foam seeped from its lower—maybe upper—torso, and fell to the floor almost in slow motion. Twenty-two small slits spread apart in numerous places, beneath which black eyes emerged. Now it could see John for what he truly was. John could see it for what it was.
It was so much more. Too much, in a sense he could not fathom. And though the entity was done transforming into the physical realm, parts of its body were unconnected from one another, bound together seemingly by inches of thin air. It was not made completely of, nor could it completely turn into, matter.
John wanted to run. Cry. Scream. Hide. Jump out a window. Slit his wrists. Blow off his head. This thing made him want to do these thing.
***
"Grandpop?" Bill searched carefully through the thickening mist with his eyes. He could see very little, and the batteries in his flashlight were dying, as well. He waited, hoping the voice was coming from Jack Johnson, the man he hadn't seen for over a decade.
Slowly, the sound of wind filled the room, brushing the mist away and bringing with it a yellow glow of heavenly light. Enshrouded in it was a tall dark silhouetted figure with hunched shoulders...no doubt the brittle frame of Bill's grandfather.
"Grandpop? Is that you? That can't be you."
"It is me, grandson." It was the hoarse male voice Bill had never forgotten.
