by Michael Bray
Billy staggered down the hall, sliding across the wall and knocking photographs onto the floor. Behind him, the man was whistling as he followed. The door was just ahead. He was sure once he was outside, he could easily outrun the man, even with a broken hand. He just needed to get some distance from that wrench. He hurried to the door, fumbling at the handle with his left hand, his right useless. A task that should be incredibly simple felt alien to him. He didn’t need to look over his shoulder because he could sense the man behind him.
It was the same instinct which made him kick out at the Trans Energy man’s knee that alerted him to the danger. Instinctively, he ducked to the side a split second before the heavy wrench embedded itself into the door, splintering it with ease. Ignoring the fact his skull would have suffered the same fate had he not moved, he squeezed passed the man as he tried to free the wrench and ran upstairs. Even in the dark, he was familiar with the layout, which he supposed gave him a slight advantage. The hallway had four rooms leading off it. The tiny guest bedroom was first, then the bathroom. A little further down the hall was Billy’s office, where just a few hours ago his only worry was finishing his presentation for work. Finally, at the end of the hall was the master bedroom. It was there he headed, trying to be as quiet as he could. He tried to remember which floorboards creaked and which doors made a sound when they were opened. He made a point of slamming the bathroom door closed as he passed, hoping it would act as a decoy before he entered the shadowy confines of the bedroom. He had no idea what he was going to do when he got there. He stared through the gloom, looking for somewhere he might be able to hide other than the horror movie cliché of under the bed or in the closet. It was then he realised he would have been better served hiding in the study. From there, he could break a window and drop down onto the porch roof, then down to the ground. Cursing his own stupidity, he doubled back intending to do just that, when he heard the creepy unhurried whistle and saw the ugly shadow draping across the wall as the man from Trans Energy slowly climbed the stairs.
~IV~
Billy crouched behind the bed. Although he wasn’t hiding as such, it felt good to have a solid object of some kind between himself and the man, who he could now see standing at the end of the hall. From this distance, he looked even more immense. His face thrown into ghoulish shadows which made his eyes look like bottomless wells and his mouth like the screaming maw of some unearthly creature. He was taking his time, whistling that maddeningly familiar tune as he stared into the gloom. It appeared he couldn’t see Billy yet, perhaps due to his unfamiliarity with the layout of the house, or maybe through sheer blind luck. Trying to ignore the agony in his arm, Billy watched the man approach the guest bedroom, pushing the door open with the end of his wrench and glancing inside. It was no more than a box room, and it was obvious enough there was nowhere in there a person might hide. He turned his attention back to the hallway.
“You can’t hide from me Snifferblob. I can smell you up here. You Squeakers are all the same. Pesticides are what you need. Well, I have justice for you, just like mother said I should.”
He wasn’t shouting, and to Billy that made it worse somehow. He was cool and calm, speaking with certainty and – more worryingly – absolute belief Billy was a Snifferblob – whatever the hell that meant. The man was obviously deranged, perhaps the victim of a violent upbringing or some kind of untreated mental illness. Whatever was wrong with him, his grasp on reality was dangerously skewed. The silence was broken by the sounds of boots on hardwood as the man slowly walked down the hall.
“I've already killed her you know, that wife of yours. She split open like ripe watermelon.” He whispered, his voice carrying through the darkness of the house.
Billy knew its intention was to draw him out, but once again, fear had taken him, and he could only cower in the shadows and wait.
“Filthy Snifferblob whore wife.” He growled as he pushed open the bathroom door. Once a Snifferblob, always a Snifferblob. You know that already, don’t you?” He muttered as he moved on, making his way ever closer to Billy’s hiding place. The study was up next, and because of its shape, Billy knew the man would have to go fully into the room to ensure he wasn’t there. It was his best chance of escape, and he crawled as slowly as he dared through the darkness to the edge of the bedroom door frame.
The man was now at the study door, and paused, tilting his head as he listened. Billy held his breath, sure he would give himself away somehow, that he would cough or scrape a wall. Angeline and Tyler flashed up in his mind’s eye, and as cold as it felt, he pushed them aside. He couldn’t deal with it right now. His entire reason for carrying on was in the hope they were alive and the freak in the hallway was either toying with him or so deluded that he really believed the things he was saying.
“Are you in there Sniffer?” The man cackled as he knocked on the study door. “Are you hiding in there, pissing and waiting to die?”
Billy tried to stay calm, which was easier said than done with his heart beating its own tune in his chest at a tempo way higher than he would have liked.
“Come on out of there Squeaker. Come to Grant.”
Billy found it strange that the man stalking through his house had a name. He was sure he had, in fact, introduced himself by name when he first arrived.
“Name’s Grant.” He said, pointing to his chest, where, indeed, his name was embroidered in tatty red font. “Power Company sent me. You need a fix, right?”
He wasn’t Grant to Billy. He was just the man from Trans Energy, the one who had chosen him to inflict his reign of terror upon. A memory that had been long forgotten suddenly came to stark clarity in his mind, so clear and vivid he wondered how he could ever have forgotten it.
It was when he was a boy, back when his father had taken him to a turkey farm to choose a bird for thanksgiving that year. He remembered standing there beside his father, watching the turkeys gibber and gobble as they went obliviously about their business.
“Which one do you want to get Billy?” He had asked, watching his son carefully.
Billy remembered turning his attention back to the birds. Trying to choose one. There was one in particular that caught his eye. It was set apart from the others and had a strange skitter to its walk.
“That one.” Billy had said, pointing to the bird with the gimpy walk. “He looks like a Joey to me dad. What do you think?”
He remembered how his father’s face had soured slightly, perhaps because he had underestimated how much his nine year old child understood.
“Oh, you can’t give it a name son.”
“Why not?”
“Because it makes it harder.”
“What do you mean?”
“If you give it a name, it makes it harder to kill when the time comes.”
He remembered looking at the bird in a different light, perhaps for the first time seeing it for the purpose it was intended. He recalled the guilt at choosing the fate for this animal he had chosen because he liked the quirky way in which it walked. He never considered that he had sentenced the animal to death. His father had seen the doubt on Billy’s face and smiled as he ruffled his hair with a cracked, calloused hand.
“Don’t think of them as animal’s, son. Think of them as food. That’s why we don’t name them. We might keep them at the house for a couple of weeks, but come thanksgiving, that bird is gettin’ its neck broke ‘n’ goin’ in the oven.”
Billy never thought as he crouched there in his own bedroom, that the advice he received twenty five years earlier would resonate now, but those wise words of his father, fit with his current plight perfectly.
“If you give it a name, it makes it harder to kill when the time comes.”
Billy made the conscious decision to not think of the intruder as ‘Grant’ or anything else which might humanise him. He was an animal, an insane thing dressed in a blood-drenched Trans Energy uniform which seemed hell bent on tearing him open to see if he had a Squeaker or Snifferblob inside
him. An animal he would kill if he had to.
He watched as the man entered the study. Billy was grateful he hadn’t bothered to tidy it of late, and it was going to mean his stalker would have to go inside and physically check he wasn’t hiding in there amongst the accumulated crap.
He peeked around the corner in time to see the man disappear into the room. It was now or never. He took a second to compose himself and convince himself this was all real. This was no movie or video game. If he screwed up, he would die, of that he was now certain. He gripped the edge of the door frame and launched himself out of the room, charging down the hallway towards the steps. It was both exhilarating and horrifying to finally be doing something other than cower in the dark.
Look straight ahead. Concentrate on the goal.
It was sound advice. He charged past the study door, denying his urge to look and see how much time he might have. As with earlier, he sensed the man rather than saw him. A quick flash of silver entered his peripheral vision, and he instinctively flinched away. The wrench connected with his shoulder, missing his head only by inches. Pain exploded down his ribs as he careered off balance, his legs threatening to give way. He bounced off the wall, his momentum sending him pitching him towards the top of the stairs. He pin wheeled his good arm, trying desperately to keep his feet, but he knew he was going down. He couldn’t stop, and fell head first down the stairs, rolling and crashing against the wall before landing on his side at the bottom. Fresh jolts of agony surged through him, his arm and shoulder now useless. Somehow, more on instinct than conscious thought, he scrambled to his feet, sucking air and ignoring the taste of blood in his throat. He stumbled into the front door, flailing at it with his one remaining good arm. The reassuring click as the door opened was, Billy thought, the greatest and sweetest thing he had ever heard. He wrenched open the door, ready to make his escape, and it was then he screamed. A raw pained sound which came from the pit of his stomach.
Two bodies hung from the porch, strung up by the neck with the Christmas tree lights Billy kept in the garage. A woman and a small boy.
His family.
Tears blurred his vision, and he felt the air leave him, making him deflate as if he were some kind of punctured balloon. The fight had gone. His wife’s green eyes were open and staring, her swollen tongue protruding from her mouth as she swayed on the porch except…
Angeline has brown eyes!
He wiped tears and snot from his face with the back of his good arm and as much as it was a harrowing sight, looked closer. The bodies did indeed belong to a woman and child, but it wasn’t Angeline or Tyler. Now he had really been able to take a closer look, they didn’t resemble them at all.
And why would they?
His inner monologue chimed in.
After all, they would have been long gone before this guy showed up.
The slimy, sick feeling in his stomach returned when he realised on countless occasions he could have escaped. He could have run away from this crazy man. His wife was safe and he could do that now, run to her and leave this freak behind, and yet… He looked at the dead woman and child hung from the porch. Sure enough, they weren’t his wife or child, nevertheless, they were somebody’s family. Somebody somewhere was waiting for them to get home, and now, because of the deranged freak who was lumbering down the stairs, they never would. He felt the change, it was as if a switch somewhere deep inside him had been flicked, and the flight instinct had switched to the other setting. The one where people did things outside of their nature. He wasn’t stupid of course, and would have fought the instinct had he not seen the gun in the living room doorway.
The entire thought process had taken seconds. He glanced back into the house. The man from Trans Energy was still waddling down the stairs, favouring his damaged knee. He was still unhurried, still whistling. He was either supremely confident or too far gone to know what was happening.
“Lucky escape there squeaky Squeaker.” He said as Billy staggered towards the kitchen, snatching up the gun on his way and wondering if he would still be able to use it with his weaker left hand. His right was completely out of the question. He could feel his pulse pounding in his temples, and imagined he could hear the blood rushing through his veins. It was both the biggest high and most harrowing, horrifying experience in his life all rolled into one. He stood by the table, sparing a quick glance to the corpse of Alex slumped in the corner.
The man from Trans Energy entered the room, ignoring the gun that was pointed at him. He started to speak, but Billy had heard enough. In a single fluid motion, he flicked off the safety and fired.
Gnurk.
That was all the man had said before the room was filled with the deafening sound of gunfire. The top half of his face exploded in a shower of claret and bone, the other three bullets hitting him in the chest. He staggered backwards into the kitchen counter, then rolled off and down into the cellar, his body making a tremendous noise as it crashed down into the dark. Streaks of blood and brain dripped down the back of the open cellar door as Billy fell to his knees in exhaustion, still trying to fire the weapon even though it was empty. Tears rolled down his cheeks and into the corner of his mouth, the salt mixing with the blood he could already taste.
Gnurk.
Billy wondered what it was he was about to say before he shot him in the face.
Gnurk.
It sounded like it belonged in the same bracket as Snifferblobs and Squeakers and all the other crazy shit the man had so passionately talked about. An emotion came over Billy he hadn’t expected. He felt guilt and even sorrow for taking another man’s life. Sure enough, people would say he did what he had to, and it was a case of live or die, but those people would be able to sleep at night. They wouldn’t have to live with what had happened for the rest of their lives.
He carefully got to his feet and looked around the horrific scene in his kitchen. The police would need to be called. Statements taken. He was sure it would even make the news. The last thing he wanted was to have his picture plastered all over the television screen, but the fact was there were five dead bodies in his house, one of which he was responsible for.
A wave of nausea came without warning, and he barely made it to the sink before he vomited. Even when there was nothing left to eject, he continued to retch anyway, dry heaving and trying to stop his hands from shaking. His legs felt weak, his stomach light and giddy.
I’m going into shock.
He staggered down the hallway and into the sitting room, falling heavily onto the sofa, chewing over the fact he could go to prison, and although he had always lived by the rules and tried to contribute to society, the one singular decision to make the phone call to the power company had skewed his life off track in the worst possible way. He managed to fish his phone out of his pocket with his working hand and opened up the menu. The dull blue light felt good as it illuminated the room a little, pushing some of the shadows back into the corners. He looked at the display, and scrolled down to Angeline’s number, but couldn’t bring himself to dial. How could he possibly explain? How could he tell her what had happened to their home? How can he tell her what he had been forced to do in order to protect them? With a marriage which was already close to breaking point, would she even understand? One thing he was certain of, however, was his own experience of being so close to death had given him a brand new appreciation of life. And more importantly, how much he did actually love his family. When all the bullshit was stripped away, all the money, jobs, and affairs and even psychotic home invaders, it was the desire to love and be loved that prevailed. He so desperately wanted to hear her voice, and yet he still couldn’t bring himself to make the call. Because part of him, deep down, couldn’t handle what would happen if she didn’t pick up. That thought process sparked another idea, one which was as unwelcome as the man who had come to fix the power had been.
What if he got to her after all?
He thought it was unlikely, in fact, had convinced himself of it. The f
act was, he had no way of knowing, not really. Still unsure what he would say if she answered, he pushed dial and lifted the handset to his ear.
Two rings.
Three.
Four.
“Hello?”
He had intended to calmly tell her what had happened, and explain he was okay, but the sound of her voice opened the floodgates, and he began to sob, crying unconsciously and without shame or embarrassment.
“Billy? What’s wrong? What happened?”
“Are you okay?” He croaked.
“Are you crying? You're scaring me Billy.”
“Please, just tell me, are you okay, both of you?”
“Everything’s fine here, we're about to eat dinner.”
“And Tyler?”
“He’s fine too. What’s happening?”
“Is he there, can you see him?”
“He’s watching TV right in front of me. You better tell me what’s happening right now.”
He didn’t think he would be able to, and had intended to spare her the gory details, but he found as he began to explain what had happened, the words continued to pour out of him. He had only cried in front of her once before, back when he had found out about her affair. Now as he told her everything, he couldn’t stop the tears from coming. He finished, and there was silence on the other end of the line. He could almost believe she had hung up, or the line hadn’t been connected at all if it wasn’t for the fact he could hear her own ragged breathing on the other end of the phone.
“Have you called the police?” She said, her voice wavering.
“Not yet. I wanted to call you first.”
“Are you hurt?”
He didn’t want to worry her but didn’t want to lie either.
“I hurt my shoulder, maybe broken my wrist.”
“Oh god, she began to cry again, and Billy heard her voice become muffled as she asked her mother to take Tyler out of the room. She came back on the line.
