Ten Open Graves: A Collection of Supernatural Horror

by David Wood

  One thing the meds never seemed to do was dispel the Closet Man.

  Trey waited for the water to boil and walked to the pantry. Carolyn had insisted on removing the pantry door shortly after they moved in. She quickly tired of Trey jumping every time he walked into the dark kitchen and found it open.

  He opened the bread-box and removed a loaf of french bread. Garlic bread. He looked back at the clock to check the time. Yeah, he thought, I have time.

  Parmesan cheese. The real stuff, not the crap from the can. Roasted garlic cloves left over from preparing his last batch of sauce. Another knife from the butchers block. He minced the garlic, enjoying the smell as the water started to boil behind him. He prepared the bread, covering each side of the split loaf with cheese and then shaking the garlic over it.

  Into the oven. Pasta into the kettle. Sausage into the pan. Add sauce.

  “Daddy?” Alan called. “You're making me hungry!”

  “Good. We'll eat as soon as Mommy gets home.”

  “Okay,” Alan said. “But I'm going to tell her how badly I beat you.”

  “I'm sure you will,” Trey yelled back.

  Besides picking up Alan from school, the hour or so before Carolyn got home was his favorite part of every weekday. Cooking. Playing with the boy. Unwinding.

  He looked back at the microwave display, watching the timer tick down. Green.

  The eyes in the ice cream van. They weren't green. They had been cat's eye yellow, glowing with crimson centers. Trey frowned as he stirred the sausage, listening to it crackle in its own grease. He'd have to tell Kinkaid about that next month.

  The sauce bubbled. Trey inspected the sausage, nodded to himself, and drained the pan. He combined the sausage and the sauce, stirred in some fresh oregano, and turned down the heat. Simmer. The pasta and garlic bread would be done in a few minutes.

  The sound of the garage door opening made him smile. “Guess who's home?” Trey called to the living room. The electronic chatter from the game stopped with a beep. He listened to the sound of Alan's feet on the wood panel floor as he ran into the kitchen. “Hey,” Trey said, “slow down before you slip and bust your butt.”

  Alan laughed and scrambled into the laundry room. When the door to the garage opened, Alan yelled “BOO!” Carolyn screamed in mock terror and then laughed.

  Trey just nodded to himself, continuing to stir the sauce.

  “Where is my dinner?” Carolyn said as she placed her arms around his neck.

  “Almost ready,” he said. She stood on her toes and kissed his cheek. He chuckled. Then she bit his ear. “You better stop that,” he said. “The cook is on the clock.”

  “Well, hurry up. You have more cooking to do later.” Her hand squeezed his ass.

  “Work, work, work,” Trey said.

  Chapter 4

  The words on the page had started to blur. Alan knew he should close the book and turn off the light, but he fought against sleep. Harry Potter and his friends were getting ready to battle the basilisk, but that's not why Alan wanted to stay awake. He loved the book, but he'd already read it twice. He needed Daddy or Mommy to kiss him goodnight. Just having them walk in the door and touch his cheek, smile at him, was enough to protect him for the night.

  Alan shook his head, trying to clear it, and then rubbed at his eyes. He glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand. 9:30 glowed on its display. Any minute. Please.

  He looked across the room to his closet. The door was closed. Alan smiled. The Closet Man. Alan didn't worry about the Closet Man. Alan had other things to worry about.

  Daddy's seizures were happening more often now. The one on the way home from school had been bad. Mommy and Daddy had told Alan that he needed to try and keep track of the time when Daddy had one of them. It was important. If Daddy's “blank-time” was longer than a couple of minutes, he needed to find an adult, and fast.

  When he was five, Daddy had blanked at the playground. Alan was sitting on a swing, learning how to pull on the metal chains to give himself momentum, learning how to pull forward on the chains to stop. Daddy was watching him from a bench. Alan was giggling, rising higher and higher into the air. When he called to his father, there was no response.

  Alan turned to the left to look at his father and saw the vacant stare. Daddy was sitting on the bench, elbows on his knees, head cradled on spread hands. His eyes were staring straight at Alan, but unmoving.

  “Daddy?” Alan called to him.

  Other kids on the playground, moving through the wooden jungle gym, or crawling through the metal web, had been oblivious. Alan had slowed the swing enough to jump off. Daddy didn't move.

  “Daddy?”

  But Daddy didn't respond. Alan made his way over to the bench and stood directly in front of his father. He tapped Daddy's shoulder. Daddy didn't move. “Daddy?” Alan started counting. When he reached ten, he held up a finger on his right hand. The next ten, he put out another finger. He was to his thumb when Daddy lifted his head. “Daddy?”

  “You're not--” Daddy raised his eyes to Alan's. “Um,” he said. He shook his head, wiped a line of drool from his face and then smiled at Alan. “Hi,” he whispered.

  “You blanked,” Alan said.

  “Yes, I guess I did,” Daddy said. Daddy was smiling, but Alan, even at that age, could tell it was forced. “How long, kiddo?”

  Alan held up his hand. “5 fingers. 10 each.”

  Daddy nodded. “Okay,” he said. He shook his head once more. “I want to see you swing some more.”

  “Are you okay, Daddy?”

  His father nodded, the smile wide, but strained. “Yes, Alan. I'm okay.”

  Daddy stared at the swing-set. Another child was already sitting on the swing Alan had been using.

  “Guess you lost your spot, kiddo,” he said. “Sorry about that.”

  Alan shrugged. He really wanted to get back on the swing. It wasn't fair another kid had taken it. He wouldn't say it, though--he knew it would make Daddy feel bad.

  “It's okay, Daddy. I was tired of it anyway.”

  They'd walked home after that, both of them sweating in the too hot sun.

  The seizures, or “blanks” as Daddy called them, were happening more often. Alan would never tell Daddy that he worried about that. Some days, when in school, he imagined his father walking to the school or back home, standing on the sidewalk, unmoving. Would Daddy fall to the pavement? Would he fall in front of a car? Alan shivered at the thought.

  A creak from the stairs interrupted his thoughts. Alan cocked his head to one side, listening to the sound. Light steps, almost inaudible over the churning of the heater. Alan smiled. “You coming to tuck me in, Daddy?”

  His father's head peeked into the room, a wide grin on his face. “I. Have. Come,” he said as he stepped through the doorway, arms out- stretched, legs stiff as he marched toward the bed. “To tickle!”

  Alan squealed as his father descended upon him, fingers lightly pressing against Alan's sides.

  “Gotcha!” Daddy yelled in triumph as Alan collapsed into giggles. Daddy stepped back, smiling. Alan's laughter slowed. “You ready to go to sleep?”

  “Yes, Daddy,” Alan said.

  “Good, because I have more tickling to do.” Alan flinched and Daddy laughed. “Not you, kiddo.” He put a finger to his lips. “Shh,” he whispered, looking around as if someone might hear him, “I'm going to go tickle Mommy!” Alan giggled again. Daddy reached out a hand and rubbed the boy's head. “Now,” he said, “go to sleep.” Daddy bent down and kissed Alan on the forehead.

  “Yes, Daddy,” Alan said.

  His father stood back up and shook his head. He mouthed “I love you,” turned, and walked out of the bedroom, closing the door behind him.

  Alan let out a sigh and snapped off the lamp. The room descended into darkness. Daddy's kiss would keep him safe from the whispers. It always did.

  Chapter 5

  Carolyn lay against Trey in the dark. Her head curled against his
shoulder, her body pressed close against his hip. His right hand absently stroked her hair, playing with the strands. “So,” she said, “did you have a good day?”

  Trey's fingers stopped in mid-caress. He felt her stiffen against him. “Um,” he said, “um, yeah.” He forced his fingers to start the job again, but he knew it was too late.

  “What's wrong, baby?”

  He shook his head in the dark. “I-- Well, I had a seizure today.”

  “Blank?” she asked, her voice flat.

  “Yeah. Blanked.”

  “How long?”

  Trey shrugged in the dark. “Alan said it was only a little while. Less than a minute, I guess.”

  “What set it off, honey?” she asked, holding him tight.

  “I--” He stopped. The ice cream man, those yellow eyes staring at him from the van's shadowy interior. “It's, um, it's stupid.”

  She pulled herself up and rested her head on an elbow. She bit her lip, her brown eyes staring into his. “You don't get to do that, Trey,” she whispered.

  “Fuck,” he said. “I know. It's just--”

  “Just tell me, baby.” She reached out with her free hand and brushed her fingers against his cheek. “Just tell me.”

  “Okay,” he breathed. He closed his eyes. “There's an-- There was an ice cream van at the school today.” He swallowed. “I saw glowing, yellow eyes inside the van.”

  “Inside the van?” she asked.

  He opened his eyes and looked at her, feeling embarrassed. “Yeah. Stupid, I know.”

  “You mean all you saw were eyes driving the van?”

  Trey sighed. “No, baby. The side door slides and the guy hands the treats out over a little counter.”

  “So you saw him in the shadows of the van?”

  “Yeah,” Trey agreed. “Only I saw those eyes.”

  Carolyn nodded. “Do you know what it was?”

  “Me being a fucking psychotic?”

  Carolyn laughed and then shook her head. “That's not what I meant.” She twirled a finger in his chest hair. “Do you know why you saw that?” He opened his mouth and then closed it. “You don't get to do that, Trey,” she whispered. She bent and kissed his lips. “Just say it.”

  “It was like the Closet Man.” His face flushed with warmth. “Only, it wasn't.”

  “Did it scare you?”

  He nodded. “Yeah, it did. But not the same way.”

  “Okay,” she said, kissing him again. “Can you talk about it yet?”

  “No. Need to think about it.”

  “Oh, that's going to be a problem,” she said. “Because you're going to be busy.” Her hand brushed against his inner thigh. He moaned. “Very very busy,” she chuckled and kissed him again.

  Chapter 6

  She listened to the wind buffeting the house, her body pressed close to Trey's. As he slept, his breathing was barely audible above the ebb and flow of the skeletal tree branches clacking together. Sleep may have taken him, but she had been awake for the last hour.

  Another seizure. Trey was having more and more of them lately. It was why he didn't drive. Although he knew how to drive a car, he never had in their ten year marriage. She didn't expect she'd ever see that happen either, especially now they had a child.

  But the seizure didn't bother her as much as the “Closet Man.”

  She shuddered in the darkness. Trey had always been afraid of closets. When they first moved into the house, she had wanted to put all their clothes in the closet in order to save space in the bedroom. Instead, they ended up compromising: all his clothes were kept in a chest of drawers in the bedroom while all her clothes hung in the closet.

  She'd never understood his fear of closets. A childhood fear that had managed to seep into adulthood. It was silly, of course. A grown man afraid of dark, enclosed spaces. He'd even removed the door of the master closet and moved it to the garage. She knew if he had his way, none of the closets in the house would have doors at all.

  She readjusted herself against his body. He let out a little moan and pressed back against her, as if making sure she was still there.

  Carolyn grinned in the darkness. Trey. Her lover, the father of her child--her husband. She loved him, but didn't understand his phobias. She guessed she never would.

  But seeing the “Closet Man” in the real world? That was...new.

  She shivered. Had that precipitated the seizure, or the other way around? More questions for Kinkaid. Maybe next time Trey went to see the doctor, she'd go with him. She could call Kinkaid, of course, and let her know, but didn't like the idea of going behind Trey's back. Trey was self-conscious enough about his mental illness as it was.

  “The Closet Man.” A pair of eyes that stared back at Trey from dark, enclosed spaces. Green eyes. Always green eyes. Except for the eyes in the ice cream van. She frowned. Something was changing. Whenever Trey saw “the Closet Man,” he ended up freezing in place, but remained conscious. He'd call for help, or he'd just stand there too afraid to speak.

  Their son knew all of this. They'd taught him about Trey's...idiosyncrasies at an early age. He knew what to do when Daddy blanked, or when Daddy froze in front of a closet or other dark place. At eight years old, Alan knew as much about Trey's condition as she did.

  Alan. She placed an arm around Trey, hugging him closer to her. Would her son start having the same mental problems? How long before he too wouldn't go near a closet? How long before he started seeing things, or freezing up during stressful situations?

  She hugged Trey tighter. In the darkness, he sighed.

  Carolyn closed her eyes again and floated. She listened to the rhythm of Trey's breathing and felt her own match it. Within a few minutes, she was finally asleep.

  Chapter 7

  The room was still dark when Trey awoke. Carolyn lay on her back on the other side of the bed, snoring softly. As usual, she had kicked off the blanket and her breasts formed two small mounds below the sheet. Trey sighed.

  He swung his legs out from beneath the blue sheets and black comforter in an attempt to keep from disturbing her. She needed the sleep.

  Tip-toeing to the chest on the far wall, he slid open the bottom drawer, pulled out a pair of sweat pants, a sweat shirt, and a T. His disc golf garb in hand, he stepped into the dark bathroom. He closed the door, once again thankful he'd oiled the hinges to keep them from squeaking.

  Trey's skin had already puckered with goose flesh from the morning's cold. Since they kept the thermostat at a cool 68 during the winter, stepping naked from the warm bed inevitably left him chilled. He slipped on the sweat pants, not bothering with underwear. The T and the sweat shirt followed. He reached into the hamper and pulled out a pair of athletic socks, giving them a quick sniff. He recoiled at the stench.

  He sat on the window seat and pulled on the socks. With any luck, the smell would drive Dick crazy. Disgusting, yes. Funny? Absolutely. He knew it was juvenile, but hell, so was Dick.

  Trey stepped out of the bathroom and made his way to the bedroom door. He gave Carolyn a last look. Her light snores were still audible above the sound of the heater. He opened the door and stepped into the cool hallway.

  Alan's bedroom door stood open. Trey sighed. The boy was already awake. Trey cocked his head, listening. Sure enough, he heard the sounds of the Wii. He had to get that kid some exercise today. In another year or two, Trey hoped Alan would be throwing discs with him and Dick. Of course, that would require Dick to give up one of his nastier habits.

  He stepped down the wood panel stairs, lifting each foot and placing it down as gently as possible. A stair squeaked beneath his feet, sounding much too loud in the quiet hallway. He gritted his teeth as the electronic beeps and boops from downstairs ended with a chime. He continued stepping until his feet hit the floor. He stopped. “Alan?” Trey called. “If you try and spook me around the corner, I'm going to ground you for a week.”

  “Ah, Dad,” Alan giggled. He stepped forward into Trey's sight. “You're no fun at al
l.”

  “That's right,” Trey agreed. He walked to the boy and patted his head. “Have you had your cereal?” Alan nodded. “Good. I'm going to be leaving soon. Do not,” he waggled a finger, “wake up your Mommy. Understood?”

  “Yes, Daddy,” Alan said. “You going to play discs with Dick?”

  “Yeah, kiddo. Time to throw some plastic.”

  Alan smirked. “Is he going to win again?”

  “No,” Trey growled. “I'm gonna take him today.”

  Alan nodded, his smile wide. “Uh-huh. I'll ask him about that.”

  Trey chuckled. He placed a finger to his lips. “Shh, kiddo. You're not supposed to call your Daddy a loser.”

  “I didn't,” Alan said. “You're just not as good as Dick at discs.”

  “Right,” Trey said with a sigh. “Your old man stinks at disc golf.”

  “But he doesn't at Mario Kart.”

  “Yeah, right,” Trey said. “I need coffee, kiddo. Get back to your game.”

  “Yes, Daddy,” Alan said. He padded back to the sunken living room and stood in front of the television. Trey watched as he unpaused the game and started swinging at digital baseballs. He shook his head and made his way to the kitchen.

  Chapter 8

  After filling his travel mug with coffee, Trey walked through the laundry room to the garage door. He took a deep breath.

  “The Closet Man is waiting inside,” a child's voice sang in his mind.

  Trey shook his head. “No,” he whispered to it, “there is no Closet Man.” Trey opened the door.

  Cold air seeped out to chill his face. A pair of green eyes blinked at him from the darkness. Trey closed his eyes and stood still. Nothing happened. He reached his hand out and fumbled for the light switch.