Ten Open Graves: A Collection of Supernatural Horror

by David Wood

  A barely audible click and he could see light through his closed eyelids. Exhaling, he opened his eyes. The garage was lit by two brilliant lights. He walked through the open door and to the side wall. His disc golf bag hung from a hook. He grabbed it and then turned to face the rest of the garage. The lawn mower, weed whacker, and other garden implements stared back at him. His bicycle, waiting for spring weather, hung atop a pair of hooks from the ceiling. But no eyes. No Closet Man.

  Trey turned back to the door, flicking off the light switch as he stepped through. He closed it without looking back. The tightness in his chest released. He took another deep breath and then blew it out through his nose. Every trip to the garage was like that, seeing those green, fluorescent eyes until light pushed away the darkness.

  He sipped at the coffee and headed toward the front door. His phone sat atop the bookcase in the hallway. There was a single text message. “Ready, bitch?” It was Dick, of course. They weren't even supposed to leave until 10:00, but, as usual, Dick was chomping at the bit.

  He headed back into the living room, watching as Alan pounded another digital baseball toward the cartoon fences. “Leaving, kiddo.”

  “Okay, Daddy,” Alan said without turning around. “Go bust him up”

  Trey chuckled. “I'll do my best.”

  “No,” Alan said, turning around with a smirk. “Do better than that.”

  “Smart-ass,” Trey growled as he walked outside and into the cold.

  Dick's garage was already open. The big man stood next to his old car, munching on an apple. Dick was well over six-feet tall and weighed about 290. The man was muscled, but a huge pot belly stuck out from beneath his shirt. He grinned as Trey walked down the driveway and across the street.

  “About goddamned time,” Dick said and took another bite from the apple.

  “Bite me,” Trey said with a grin. “I'm thirty minutes early.”

  “Big whoop,” Dick said through a mouthful of apple. “You ready?” Trey nodded. Holding the apple in his mouth, Dick pulled his keys from his pocket and opened the door. It swung open with a groan of protest.

  The Regretta, an old VW Jetta Dick had bought some years back, still ran, but Trey was certain it was headed for the shop in another month or two. Ever since Dick had broken the 100k mark on the odometer, he'd christened it “the Regretta.”

  Trey opened the passenger side and placed the disc golf bag on the floor. He bent down and fell into the seat, travel mug still in his hands. Dick groaned as he bent and managed to slide himself in.

  “One of these days,” Trey said with a grin, “you're going to lose enough weight to actually fit in this thing.”

  “Fuck that,” Dick snarled as he put the keys in the ignition and placed the apple in his lap. “I'm just going to get a big-ass SUV made for fat people.”

  Trey laughed. “That's called a Winnebago, Dick.”

  Dick turned to him, his face set in a scowl. “Fuck you, Leger. Goddamned cajun.”

  Trey just smiled at him and took another sip of coffee.

  Dick shook his head. “That's it. I'm kicking your ass so bad, you won't even admit the score to your son.”

  “Are you kidding? He believes my lies. It's the nature of fatherhood.”

  Dick harrumphed and started the car. After several chuffing sounds and squeals from the starter, the engine fired. The radio sparked to life, Pink Floyd smashing through the speakers.

  “Christ, turn that hippie shit down!” Trey yelled above the din.

  With a grin, Dick turned the volume up, put on his seat belt, and pulled out of the driveway.

  Chapter 9

  The disc golf course was mostly empty. A few cars sat in the parking lot, but most of those were from the tennis players. Trey watched as Dick scanned the hills, looking for discs flying through the air. Nothing. He turned and smiled at Trey. “Looks like we're loners today.”

  Trey scowled. “I guess you're going to imbibe, then.”

  “Well, fuck yeah,” Dick said. He headed toward the practice tee beneath the blanket of pines and brush. Trey followed, his bag hanging from his shoulder. When they reached the edge, Dick pulled out a dirty white disc. He dropped his bag to the concrete and held the frisbee between his fingers.

  “Watch and weep,” Dick whispered and flung it. The disc flew between the branches, heading toward the metal basket. It hit the dirt just before the basket and spun around in a small circle before stopping. He turned to Trey. “All right, whipper-snapper, try and top that.”

  Trey lowered his bag to the concrete and pulled out a blue disc. “Move aside, old man,” he said and pushed Dick out of the way. Dick laughed, raised his hands, and moved to give Trey enough room. Trey stood parallel to the basket and flung the disc forehand. The disc took off with an awkward wobble, made a slight left turn, and then struck a tree limb. The frisbee bounced and landed in the brush.

  “Fuck.”

  “Not a good start, young'n,” Dick said in a flat tone. “Maybe you should try again with a little less suck?”

  Trey turned toward Dick. The man was smiling at him. “Maybe you should drink a big cup of shut-the-fuck-up.” He smiled at Dick and then slapped him on the back. “It'll get better.”

  “I fucking hope so,” Dick laughed. “I don't want to be here all day.” The two men grabbed their bags and headed between the trees.

  Dick waited on the path while Trey crawled into the brush and stood where his disc landed. Mindful of the brambles, Trey picked up the blue frisbee, lined himself up, and flung the disc again. It stayed low, barely flying above the branches of an oak, slipped through a pine tree's nest, and landed next to the basket.

  “Told you,” Trey said as he walked back to the path.

  Dick harrumphed and then walked to the basket. He didn't even bother dropping his disc in the chains. It was just practice, after all. Dick turned toward the concrete walkway and Trey followed his gaze.

  Dick turned to him. “Yup, it's time.” He pulled a small glass pipe from his bag and a Bic lighter. Trey opened his mouth to say something, but Dick already had the pipe to his lips, flaring the flame into the small bowl and inhaling. The smell of marijuana crept through the winter morning. Dick exhaled a large cloud, coughed and then turned back to the walkway. Still no one there. He smiled at Trey and took another hit.

  “Fucking hate it when you do this,” Trey whispered.

  Dick shrugged, tapping out the coals while he held in the last of the smoke. He blew a cloud toward Trey, watching it whisk and break apart in the wind. “Well,” he said in a gravelly voice, “tough shit.” Once the pipe was back in his bag, he bent down, picked up his disc, and headed toward the first tee.

  Trey sighed and followed. “One of these days,” he said, “you're going to get busted again.”

  Dick rolled his eyes. “Sheriff McCausland ain't gonna throw me in jail,” he said. “I don't deal. I don't buy. I just, um, have a medical problem.”

  “Right. A medical problem that started in the 70s.”

  The older man laughed. “After the old bitch Dawson complained, and he came by, I haven't had any more problems with her. He told her I have chronic arthritis. Old bitch bought it too.” He winked at Trey. “One of these days this shit will be legal. Until then, I'll just keep seeing McCausland at the cigar store.”

  “Uh-huh,” Trey said. “Why don't you throw a goddamned disc.”

  “Man,” Dick said and looked up at the first basket in the distance, “I need some Floyd.”

  Trey laughed.

  Chapter 10

  Trey let himself into the house. Alan and Carolyn were gone. He smiled as he walked up the stairs and to the bathroom. They would bring food. After walking around the 18-hole course for an hour and a half and searching through mud and brambles for his discs, he was damned hungry.

  He stripped off his dirty sweatpants and damp sweatshirt. Dick hadn't even noticed the socks. Dammit, Trey thought. He'd forgotten to find an opportunity to stick them in his
face. Maybe next time.

  Naked, he turned on the hot water and stepped into the shower.

  The water cascaded through his long hair, wiping away bits of bark and moss. Although it had been cold, they hadn't yet had a freeze, and everything in the forest was still alive. The oak trees were mostly naked, but the pines still had needles, ferns still had fronds, and brambles were still everywhere. Shit, he counted himself lucky he had managed to skirt the patch of poison oak on hole five.

  He opened his eyes and watched water patter out onto the bathroom floor. He cursed and then pulled the shower curtain shut. The world immediately darkened and his stomach knotted. A wave of claustrophobia hit him and he had to close his eyes and take a deep breath before the feeling passed.

  Every damned time he got into the shower it was like that. When he'd met Carolyn, he'd only been showering for a few years. Before that, it was the tub or nothing. Two baths, really. One to get the crap off him, drain the dirty water, and then a bubble bath to clean the skin. His hair had been shorter then and he'd used the water from the tub to wash his hair.

  In his twenties, he finally decided to break the habit and take showers. But damn, it was difficult. The claustrophobia was hard to break. And twelve years later, he was still fighting it. Trey longed for the day when he could stand in an elevator and not have his heart trip-hammer in his ears.

  He picked up the bottle of shampoo and slowly lathered his long hair.

  Dick had kicked his ass at disc golf, as promised. Dick had said they should rename the game to “Trey's 18 holes of suck.” Trey chuckled as he remembered Dick's laughter. The guy was an asshole. A funny asshole. A good friend.

  Trey washed the shampoo out of his hair and quickly rubbed soap over his skin. Another final rinse of everything and he shut off the water. He reached for the shower curtain and stopped.

  “He's out there, Trey,” a voice whispered in his mind. “He's out there and waiting for you.”

  Trey shivered, but not from the cold air against his wet skin. He took another deep breath, closed his eyes, and pulled the shower curtain open. He stood there for a moment, naked in the cold, while the voice continued its chant.

  He opened his eyes. The bathroom was empty. No bad man waiting for him. No pair of green eyes staring back at him, or the shadow of a man standing tall against the wall. Just the clothes hamper, the sinks, the toilet.

  The voice went silent.

  He stepped out, water pattering against the tile floor. He grabbed a towel from the rack and wrung out his hair. The water streamed off onto the bath-mat. It was damned cold now. Trey rubbed the water from his chest, back and legs. Once finished, he put the towel back on the rack and walked toward the door.

  In his peripheral vision, he saw the yawning, gaping darkness of the closet. Something was grinning in there. Watching him. Trey ignored the fear that shook his spine and walked into the bedroom. The moment he crossed the threshold and could no longer see the yawning closet, the fear abated. He took a deep breath.

  The Closet Man hadn't been this visible to him in quite some time. It had been at least a year since he'd been so visible.

  Trey strode to the chest of drawers, pulled out a pair of briefs, slipped them on, and followed them with a pair of old jeans. After putting on a clean T-shirt, he headed downstairs.

  Carolyn and Alan still weren't back yet. Trey headed to the coffee machine and started another cup. The small cupboard caught his eye and he heaved a sigh. He opened it up and pulled his large pillbox out. He popped the lid on the first “S” compartment and dropped five pills into his palm.

  White. Cream. Green. Yellow. Blue.

  After retrieving a glass of water, he threw all five into his mouth and drained the glass. The pills were a miasma of different flavors and textures. The chalky taste of one hit the back of his palate on its way down and he ignored the urge to retch.

  He'd been on the damned things so long he wasn't sure he could remember a time when he hadn't taken them.

  He placed the box back in the cupboard. The coffee maker finished burping out the last of its dark liquid. Cup in hand, he sat at the break- fast table and stared out onto the back deck through the glass door. The water oak he'd planted three years ago had already grown a couple of feet and reached for the sky, desperately trying to climb past the canopy of pines.

  The sun was already high, bathing the deck boards with light. If it wasn't so cold, he'd pull his laptop outside, set up shop on the deck, and maybe get some work done.

  Rattle of keys. Trey looked around toward the living room. The jingling sounded again. Trey stood from the table and walked past the living room and into the foyer. Carolyn's tall form stood next to Alan's. Alan was trying out his new key again. Through the smoked and bent glass, he could barely make out Alan's frustrated expression.

  “Won't turn,” the boy said.

  “Try again,” Carolyn said with a sigh. “Hurry up, kiddo. These bags are killing me.”

  Trey fought the urge to go and unlock the door. He and Carolyn had talked about this. Alan needed to get used to letting himself in and out. That, of course, also meant he had to finally break in the damned key they'd given him. Another rattle echoed in the foyer and then Trey heard the click.

  “Got it, Mommy,” Alan triumphed as he opened the door. He held it open for his mother. Trey walked past Alan and took the bags from Carolyn. “See, Daddy? I can open the door all by myself.”

  “Yeah,” Trey said with a laugh as he headed into the kitchen with the groceries, “I see that.” Trey smelled quiche. His stomach growled with delight. He placed the bags on the island, and turned into Carolyn's waiting kiss. “Whoa,” he whispered, “what was that for?”

  She smiled. “I'll show you later.” She winked and kissed him again.

  Chapter 11

  Just as on Friday, and most other days, the school parking lot was already filled with cars getting ready to pick up kids. Trey stared at the mostly empty bike racks, wondering once again why more of the kids didn't ride to school and back. If it wasn't for the fact Trey enjoyed walking Alan to and from school, he would have suggested they get the boy a bike.

  But that could wait. Middle school was only a couple of years away. By then, Alan would probably be ready to move on from this routine.

  Trey knew it was inevitable, but it didn't make it any less painful to think about.

  He looked past the playground and through the copse of trees. The cream colored ice cream van sat parked at the curb, its sliding door was still closed. From this distance, he couldn't make out any movement behind the tinted windows. The ice cream man was surely getting ready, making sure he had coins and bills for change and whatever else it was Ice Cream men did before serving the children.

  “Scooby-dooby-doo, where are you?” a phantom voice sang in his mind.

  Trey shivered. In his peripheral vision, he watched the woman a few feet away from him turn her head to look at him. He ignored her.

  “Scooby?” he thought.

  He fought away the jitters and stared at the school exit. The school bell's buzz would fill the world in a moment and children would start streaming through the glass doors. Alan would run out with them, but not quite be part of them. The thought of Alan's excited face made him smile. But the boy's lack of friends, and the way he always stood apart from the other children, made Trey feel a little sad too.

  The teachers had said not to worry, that one day he'd find his place among the throng. Whenever he and Carolyn asked Alan about it, he just stared at them as if they were speaking Greek.

  The kid was too smart. “Gets that from his mother,” Trey thought to himself. “The aloofness? That's all me.” Trey sighed.

  His eyes wandered once again to the parked van. It bounced a little, as though someone inside was moving about.

  Trey smirked. “Maybe Mr. Ice Cream is porking Mrs. Ice Cream,” he thought to himself.

  The school buzzer sounded, giving Trey a start. The two women waiting to w
alk their children home both sighed in relief, as though the wait had been excruciating. Trey tried not to glance toward them. He was certain they already thought him a closet pedophile, rapist, or something worse.

  Jesus, didn't anyone talk to one another anymore?

  The glass doors opened and as if on cue, the ice cream van's music began.

  Trey snapped his fingers. “Do Your Ears Hang Low?” That was the song. He had tried so damned hard to remember its name and there it was, just like that.

  The river of children swept through the doors, most heading toward the white van. Trey watched them, their packs slapping their backs in time with their frantic footsteps.

  Trey turned back toward the school.

  Alan walked out the door, his eyes finding Trey almost immediately. The boy smiled at him and quickened his pace. Trey wanted to wave at him, but he knew that wouldn't be the “cool” thing to do. He stood at the curb, the quiet, unobtrusive old fart.

  “Well? You ready to go home?” he said as Alan approached.

  The boy sighed. “I guess so. I mean I'd much rather stay here than play on the Wii--”

  Trey shook his head and growled. “No Wii until homework is done.”

  “Ah, Dad,” Alan said in his best “poor me” voice. “Sooner we get home, sooner I can get it done and play, right?”

  Trey nodded. “You got it, kiddo.” He reached out and touched the boy's shoulder. “Let's do it.”

  “Yes, sir,” Alan said.

  They made their way to the sidewalk in silence. Trey felt the jitters again. He didn't want to look at the ice cream van, but something glowed in his peripheral vision.

  Alan turned to look at the van. “He sure has a lot of kids today,” Alan said.

  Trey kept his eyes straight ahead. “There is no Closet Man,” he muttered.

  “What, Daddy?”

  Trey turned toward him and then stopped. His eyes locked on the long arms that jutted from the van, taking money and handing back wrapped treats. Talons. Not fingers. Talons attached to wretched, scaly flesh. He opened his mouth and then closed it.