Bottom Feeder

by Matt Cole

  BOTTOM FEEDER

  by

  Matt Cole

  WHISKEY CREEK PRESS

  www.whiskeycreekpress.com

  Published by

  WHISKEY CREEK PRESS

  www.whiskeycreekpress.com

  Copyright © 2016 by Matt Cole

  Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 (five) years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  ISBN: 978-1-61160-383-5

  Credits

  Cover Artist: Gemini Judson

  Editor: Marsha Briscoe

  Printed in the United States of America

  To all my friends and family who have always been there to pull me from the depths of my despairs and away from those evils that feed there, thank you all.

  MC

  The beast that you saw was, and is not, and is about to rise from the bottomless pit and go to destruction. And the dwellers on earth whose names have not been written in the book of life from the foundation of the world will marvel to see the beast, because it was and is not and is to come.

  Revelation 17:8

  He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster. And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.

  Friedrich Nietzsche Beyond Good and Evil

  Prologue

  The voice was still fresh in his head telling him to bring more people…or food.

  He had struggled to ignore the voice.

  The voice would not shut up!

  Crying, he continued with his plan.

  The New Year was not even an hour old, stood tranquil and cold, the moon brilliant. Against the horizon the mountain peaks endured white, isolated, and unreal. Here in the lower forest moonlight sifted through the teeming treetops to sparkle on the diamond points of frost that shattered under the rubber wheels of the bicycle. There was no other sound; the world was freezing to death. Riding hunched in the seat, the man guided the bike with his knees. Once he came to a narrow dirt road, the man checked the bike and listened, his breath like smoke. There was neither sight nor sound of life, man and bicycle went on, across the road; into the forest again, like sailors on an endless sea.

  He came to a rail fence stopping the bike. The man alighted laboriously, then with wooden-fingered gauge leaned the bicycle to a nearby sapling and from the front basket he removed a bulky sack. Climbing the fence, he walked vigilantly to the edge of the timber, halting in the black shadows of a pine tree to look over the clearing ahead, bone-white and lifeless as the surface of the moon. Beyond the field was a house, backed by a shed and other buildings, then after a long, wary inspection, the man moved into the opening with the sack. A dog rushed, barking, from the porch of the house and the man stood still, making soft, friendly sounds; the dog circled downwind for his scent, ceased barking, and came up with the apologetic tail. The man rubbed its ears and spoke in howls. He liked dogs.

  The man went on with the dog trotting beside him. The house was hushed, listless, part of the macabre night world. Against the kitchen wall was a woodshed and the man stepped into it, one shadow obscuring in another. His cold fingers were all thumbs; he worked in the dark, but it was the straightforward thing he had to do. The dog waited outside the shed in the moonlight, now and then moving its tail in a buoyant, friendly manner. A jug gurgled and the harsh smell of gasoline made the dog sneeze. In the shed a match flared and a fire began to glow merrily. Quickening now, the man emerged, returning the way he had come, the dog trotting beside him across the frosted field, over the fence, into the forest as far as the bike.

  For a extended moment the man stood there, looking back in the direction of the house, absently fumbling for a cigarette, but it was too cold for smoking, and with fingers of ice he pushed the pack back under his coat, but so awkwardly that it fell to the ground. The man mounted the bike, riding away; the dog returned to its bed on the porch, and for a while the world was vacant and silent again.

  After a timeless interval, light flourished in the shed, slowly at first, then with a gusty rush that brought the dog off the porch, barking alarm. No more tentacles reaching out of the darkness touching him or his family or slime. They were all gone, but so too was the evil. Inside the house a child stirred and murmured without waking. Not that he could wake completely.

  Part One: The Basement

  Chapter 1

  Deena Hopping drained her coffee mug. Sugar and honey coagulated the residue and she thought she felt an instant lift from all the glucose, caffeine, and sweeteners she’d added to the drink.

  “Why don’t you add some coffee to your sugar?” asked Arlene Balleza.

  Arlene broke into a smile and reddened. She had the kind of moist, velvety skin that blushed easily. She must have been extremely attractive when she was younger, maybe striking; but she was in her early fifties now and carried an extra forty pounds that tarnished her features and made her nose too insignificant for her face. Nevertheless, her eyes were astonishing anyway. They were intense, clear green, fringed with luscious, black lashes, and her hair was so gold, you’d never get from any bottle. It would have been lovely, too, but was done up into a wiry halo that made her face look even larger.

  “I like my coffee sweet,” she said proudly. “I mean it keeps me going. You know it gives me energy.”

  They went to the front window that looked out on a few acres of brownish meadow ringed with trees. In the distance were a couple of begrimed white boxes on stilts, under an old pine.

  “Those dirty boxes?” Arlene asked.

  Deena nodded and her smile widened, showing small, even teeth. “No, you don’t have to give me a hand with those.”

  “I’d love to—it’s no trouble.” Arlene meant it.

  Deena said, “As long as it’s not a bother to you.”

  “Well…no…I’m kidding, it’s fine.” Arlene tried to sound humorous.

  Deena turned away from the window.

  “Then I suppose we should get started on them,” she said.

  “I suppose we should.” Arlene looked at the clock on the kitchen wall. It had an expensive porcelain face with hand-painted birds. Everything in the house was very modern and had the look of having been collected over the years since Deena had left college, not bought in time passed down from generation to generation. It was the look Arlene was quickly becoming a fan of in the homes she “did,” but this was genuine.

  The kitchen table on which they had just had coffee, for instance, had just been assembled earlier that very morning.

  Deena suddenly felt good.

  Arlene Balleza was red-faced, overweight, maybe a little goofy, and her clothes were abysmal: her sweater was a Pepto-Bismol-pink that only added to her moist, red look; her Capri pants pulled across her backside and were far too short, so the cuffs flapped around like bell bottoms.

  Bell bottoms!

  But her taste was good when it came to the house; she seemed rather shy, uncertain about herself, and affable, and it did not hurt that she had money.

  “You sure?” Deena asked, picking up her notepad and a permanent marker.

  “C�
��mon, let’s get this over with,” Arlene replied as she led Deena through the large, sunny, state-of-the-art kitchen, to an old-fashioned slatted wooden door. “The stairs look worse than they truly are,” she announced with her hand on the knob, “but they’re sound. We’ve been assured and the landlord even allowed us to have them checked.” Then she opened the door, and Deena smelled mold and sour dirt mixed with a heavy, sickish-sweet odor of rot, decay, and what she imagined death would smell like. Deena expected the stench to be hot as well but was surprised to discover it came up the stairs on a draft of cool air.

  “Good…” Lord, Deena nearly said. Yet it was wrong to use the Lord’s name in vain in front of Arlene Balleza, who’d been a very devout Christian woman and regular church goer.

  “Grief,” Deena finished lamely and Arlene turned an even deeper shade of red.

  “You may hear and find the occasional mouse or two,” Arlene said miserably. “They get in and die no matter what we do to stop them. They breed so quickly and can get into the tiniest of spaces. Perhaps I’ll keep looking for a better exterminator…”

  “That would be nice, Arlene.”

  “Well, if you’re anything like me…then you must be deathly afraid of creatures like mice.” Arlene flicked the switch next to the door and bulbs in old metal cups came on; they weren’t very bright at all, making pools of light down a rickety-looking flight of stairs even more frightful.

  Arlene’s eyes fluttered like the wings of a nervous moth and Deena thought, she hates it down here, she is nearly petrified, and felt a tug of empathy for the heavyset woman next to her.

  “Don’t you worry, Arlene,” Deena said gently. “We don’t have to go down there if you don’t want to.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind, really,” Arlene replied weakly. “The smell is typical of basements in the north. How long have you been living in the south? A few years? Well, you probably just don’t remember how awful basements can smell.”

  “Didn’t it say in the ad that the landlord was going to rent the basement out separately anyway?”

  “Well…yes, that is the deal. In fact, you may be right; perhaps we shouldn’t even go down there. The landlord, Mr. Marsden, was adamant that I be sure to advise prospective renters that the basement was not part of the agreement.” Arlene sounded terrified yet relieved.

  “Then that settles that; we can get working on the rest of the house,” Deena said.

  “That would be best,” Arlene added as she tried to sound like she had been looking forward to going into the basement, and they closed the door.

  “Is there a second entrance outside that leads into the basement?” Deena asked.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Then do you think Mr. Marsden would mind if I installed a lock on this door?” Deena questioned politely.

  “I don’t see why not…but I’d better run it by him first, okay?”

  The smell of mold, sour dirt, and carrion still lingered in Deena’s nostrils, and she suddenly thought, something is not right down there.

  * * * *

  “Don’t forget to stock up on the sugar for your coffee,” Arlene said. She held up a near empty container of the sweetener. “You still have a lot of unpacking to finish.”

  “Thanks for everything, Arlene,” Deena called back.

  “I’ll get back over in a few days or so and give you a hand, okay?” Arlene said.

  “Okay…that would be nice. But hopefully I’ll be done by tomorrow. You have really out done yourself this time. This place is exactly what I was looking for.” Arlene was blushing again. Her blood pressure must be stratospheric, Deena thought, as she made her way out the front door and down the marble steps from the front porch that led to a marble path across the lawn.

  Arlene climbed behind the wheel of a four-year-old Mercedes that she was already talking of trading in on a current version, then waved to Deena, who waved back from the sidewalk that ran in front of the rental house she had begun to move into.

  * * * *

  Not right! Deena thought as she laid out the window treatments she was planning to install in the living room. Her mind went back to the smell coming from the basement. Despite Arlene’s reminder that all basements smelled bad, Deena was not convinced. She was glad not to have to go down there.

  Later, at the local restaurant Deena tried to relax after a long day of unpacking and making ready her new rental house. She found a friend, Willard Swader, to join her for dinner.

  “How much are you paying?” Willard asked. It would have sounded rude from anyone else, but anyone who knew Willard knew he loved to talk about money, no matter the person or situation.

  “Two thousand a month,” Deena replied.

  “Goodness gracious, Deena!” Willard exclaimed.

  “I know it sounds like a lot…”

  “Because it is a lot.” That was Maggie, Willard’s wife. Worth even more than he was and prone to more gossip than anyone in Strafford. Combined, the two had an estimated fortune between them that was rumored to be in excess of one hundred million dollars, Deena thought. Twelve hundred a month was not a lot to them.

  “But,” Deena pushed on with all the firmness she could muster, “they’ve already rebuilt the house using all the modern advancements, making the house very green. It is truly lovely and amazing.”

  “Lovely and amazing?” Willard asked wryly.

  The house had been a concern among the town for years before the fire destroyed it. It had been the eye sore, the armpit of the town, and the scourge of every neighbor.

  “Well, it does look so much nicer than it did before,” Maggie conceded.

  “It would have been hard pressed to have it look worse,” Willard joked. “I suppose since all the enhancements have been made it is worth what you’re paying per month; just be careful. Something ’bout that house that unnerves me.”

  “Don’t frighten the girl, Willard,” Maggie scolded. “Don’t you listen to this silly old man, Deena, dear? The house is lovely and we’re glad that you will be so close. You must come over for dinner one night.”

  “Certainly, that would be nice,” Deena replied. “What unnerves you about the house, Mr. Swader?”

  “It is the basement, more than the house itself,” Willard Swader shot back.

  “He’s just being silly, Deena, really,” Maggie offered, giving her husband a look of daggers.

  “The basement, why? What about the basement bothers you, Mr. Swader?” Deena pressed.

  “Call me Willard, please. It’s nothing, I spoke out of turn,” Willard said, trying to move to another subject.

  “Do you know why Mr. Marsden, my landlord, is renting the basement out separately from the house?”

  Willard and Maggie Swader exchanged looks. “Maybe he needs the extra income,” Willard answered.

  “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “Nothing dear. The house was just so darned ugly before the fire. And over the years the local kids claimed that the house was haunted. You know how children can be. But now that it has been rebuilt I’m sure all of those stories will disappear; right, Willard?”

  “Of course.”

  The couple stood to leave and Maggie excused herself and was off. Before Willard could leave Deena grabbed his shirt sleeve.

  “Mr. Swader…I mean Willard, what is the real story about the basement?”

  “Strange things have been claimed to go on in that basement,” Willard said. “What is truly strange is how the entire house was burnt to the ground, yet the basement was not touched by the fire.”

  “You mean the original basement was not destroyed?”

  “Exactly, not even with smoke damage.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “I don’t know. Just be careful. And the reason for not renting it out is that Mr. Marsden himself uses that basement for God knows what,” Willard explained. “It was checked out after the fire and as they were rebuilding the house, but nothing was discovered down there.”
/>   “It was empty?”

  “No, there was some furniture and the sort…but…something didn’t seem right to those who went down there…”

  “Willard Swader! Come on and leave that poor girl alone,” Maggie yelled from the front door of the restaurant.

  “Be careful,” Willard said before leaving.

  Willard Swader was respected, handsome, educated, not like Arlene, who had never completed college for all of her money. People listened to Willard, but Arlene was enjoyable to be around.

  “Thanks.”

  * * * *

  It wasn’t long, only a few weeks, that Deena had the house looking lived in. The trees outside were budding out and the lawns started to green up; she had finished unpacking. The cleaning had commenced next, so her days were spent washing windows and mopping floors, hanging the last of the drapes and wallpaper, placing the area rugs and hanging her pictures on the walls.

  “I’m finally done,” Deena called down the stairs. “Come and see for yourself.”

  Arlene had made a promise not to look until it was completely done and she’d kept it. Now she went upstairs, head bowed so she wouldn’t see until she got to the top and could get the full effect.

  She stepped up on the pale mauve carpet and raised her head for the first time.

  “Oh, Deena!”

  “So, you like it?”

  “Like it! I’m amazed and jealous.” She’d never imagined this once foreboding house could look so warm and familiar. The floors were mostly wood and, like the stairs, some had been covered slightly in fine carpets or area rugs.

  Deena inhaled, nostrils flaring. “Smell anything?”

  “Incense, and is that apple pie? You’re cooking now?” Arlene gasped.

  “Heavens no, I have candles, and as you noticed, incense burning throughout the house.”

  “The smell from the basement that bad?”

  “No, actually I don’t even smell it. And to make sure I don’t I have been burning candles.”

  “I hope you don’t burn the new house down in the meanwhile...” Arlene joked then realized it was not funny.