Ten Open Graves: A Collection of Supernatural Horror

by David Wood

  He wanted to yell Alan's name, Carolyn's name, anything to break the gloom, but held off. Whoever was up here had to have Alan trapped in his room, and he didn't know what they would do if the cops showed up. Or if he made any noise.

  Trey put his feet on the steps and slowly made his way up. The wood creaked under his weight and he winced again. He held the knife handle in his palm, the blade in front. He crouched low and turned the corner to proceed up the other side of the staircase. He was so low, knees bent, that the hallway was still out of sight. Each stair was torture as he tried to be quiet, so quiet. Final four steps. He made his way up the last few, still crouched on the balls of his feet.

  The hallway was shrouded in gloom. “Please help me,” Alan's voice whimpered from the end of the hall. “Mommy--” Alan's voice turned into an exhausted sob.

  Rage replaced his fear; the adrenaline pumping through his system had his every nerve tingling. Something moved at the end of the hall. Trey froze, one foot slightly forward. “Come out, motherfucker,” Trey said to the darkness.

  The dark form at the end of the hall seemed to grow, as though it had been crouching on its haunches. The narrow band of light from beneath Alan's door barely provided enough illumination, but Trey could see it.

  As the figure unfolded itself, it grew tall. A pair of eyes opened. Two ragged glowing yellow ovals in the darkness, cruel crimson embers burning in their centers. It took a step forward.

  Trey gritted his teeth. “Get away from my boy,” he hissed. The sobbing from Alan's room stopped, as though he were suddenly listening. Trey barely noticed.

  The figure took another step forward. “You,” it hissed back at him. “You took away my home,” it spat in a low growl.

  Trey fought the urge to flee down the stairs as it moved another step closer. Mindful his back was against the stairs, Trey took a step toward it. The thing in the hallway paused. “Took my food,” it said. “I can't go back there.” The thing was holding something toward him. Trey struggled to see what it was in the darkness. “My home!” it screamed at him.

  “Get away from my son!” Trey yelled back at it.

  “So,” the shadow said in a calm, low voice, “I'm taking everything that's yours.” The light in the hallway flicked on. He clenched his eyes against the sudden bright wash of light.

  Something rolled across the floor in front of him. Trey looked down. His wife's face stared up at him from the carpet. Her left eye dangled by a gossamer thread of flesh, blood still curling out from the empty socket. Her mouth was frozen in a scream, crimson lines snaking out from broken lips. A ragged chunk of flesh was missing from the side of her cheek.

  Trey tried to scream but nothing came out of his mouth. The world wavered, the face shimmering before him. Trey felt himself losing his balance.

  “Everything,” the voice growled from the end of the hallway.

  Trey fell backward, his eyes still locked on the blood crusted hunk of meat that used to be his wife. Body parts were scattered throughout the hallway. Her naked torso sat at the end of the hall, huge chunks of flesh missing from the savaged corpse.

  Trey tried to scream again. A shadow crept over him and he slowly looked up.

  The fiend. The thing. The Ice Cream Man. The angled head, the drooling, blood-crusted canines, a forked tongue hanging from one side. It held a hand before him, the long taloned nails inches away from his eyes. Its own eyes flared and glowed even in the hallway's harsh light. It glared at him. “I. Take. Everything.”

  Rolling down the stairs. The steps digging into his back. He screamed from the sudden searing pain in his face and chest. He rolled to the bottom, his head smashing onto the floor, facing upward at the balcony. His left eye was blind, his face a single, sizzling nerve. The thing looked down at him from the balcony and said something in a greasy string of syllables. It cocked its head to one side and then growled at him. With a sneer, it walked back down the hallway.

  Trey could hear it too: sirens. They were coming. They were coming and would be there soon.

  Thump. Thump. The sound of strong fists smashing into wood echoed from the balcony. Alan screamed.

  Trey rolled on his side and felt something tear away from his face. His entire body was stiff. He tried to move his right arm, but it refused to do anything more than scream back at him. He managed to get to his knees and stared at the stairs. Another scream. There was the sound of splintering wood. Trey raised himself, shrieking from the pain.

  Stumbling step by step, bones grinding in his limp right arm with every jarring movement, he turned the far corner. The cleaver sat on the second to top step. He bent at the waist, trying to ignore the searing pain in every muscle. He raised himself again, grinding his teeth to keep the shriek in his throat.

  The thing was clawing at Alan's door, its long nails shredding the wood. It had already made a ragged hole. Trey shambled toward it in a drunken stumble. It stuck its head into the hole, growling something at Alan.

  Alan's shriek of fear drove the pain away from his mind. Trey raised the knife and plunged it as hard as he could into the thing's back. Wood shattered as the thing jumped upward.

  The noise it made shook the house, an inhuman cry that rang in Trey's ears. He tried to pull the knife back out, but it wouldn't let go. The thing jerked backwards, its head shredding the remaining wood and fell back atop him. Something snapped in his chest and he couldn't breathe. The heavy, leathery body crushed down on him. His mouth filled with the copper taste of blood.

  The thing rolled off him and hit the wall. Trey tried to sit up, but the excruciating pain in his ribs kept him prone. He turned his head and stared at the thing next to him. Black blood poured from beneath its back. The monster, its cream colored clothes covered in streaks of wet crimson and dark fluid, slowly rolled to its side. As it dug its talons into the wall for purchase, plaster dust and paint chips exploded into the air.

  Trey coughed, his chest screaming with the pain.

  It groaned and lifted itself further up the wall, its talons finally catching on a stud. Wheezing, chuffing breaths rattled from its chest. Its right hand struggled to free the knife, now buried to the hilt, in its back.

  “Fucked you,” Trey whispered. “Fucked you good.”

  The thing turned toward him as it managed to stand. Its eyes burned red, the yellow reduced to simple rings. It growled and took a step toward him. The sirens outside stopped. Trey heard the sound of voices at the front door. The thing glared down at him, heaving in pain.

  Trey smiled at it. It roared and shuffled past him into the master bedroom. The front door opened with a bang just as the bedroom's picture window shattered. An inhuman howl filled the air as the cops climbed the stairs.

  Trey closed his remaining eye, Alan's screams still ringing in his ears.

  Chapter 63

  The bench of seats was empty except for Alan and the deputy sheriff. Alan took a sip from the water bottle one of the nurses had given him. He didn't want it, but she'd told him to keep drinking it. He readjusted the blanket. He still felt cold. The same nurse that had given him the water had said something to him about shock, but he barely remembered the words. Everything was numb.

  The Sheriff had stepped through bloody plaster and wood to get him out of the room. By the time they reached him, his voice had departed, leaving his throat raw and every breath was an experience in pain. One of the men dressed in the blue uniforms had tried to cover his eyes as they brought him downstairs, whispers of air still trying to make sound past his tortured and ripped vocal chords. But he had seen.

  Alan took another sip and shivered. Deputy Sheriff Wallace turned to look at him, his dark mustache jumping at the ends in a soft smile. “You okay, son?”

  It took every ounce of effort to nod. His neck hurt. His chest felt as though a huge weight had been placed atop it for hours on end. But the drain, the exhaustion, had left him feeling dull and dazed. He took a shuddering breath and let loose a silent sob. He couldn't even make that noise a
nymore.

  Daddy. He'd seen Daddy lying on the hallway floor, blood covering his face. Two men in white hovered over him, one whispering in his ear while the other pulled a syringe from a black bag. A red hole where Daddy's right eye used to be seeped blood down his face, joining the red rivulets streaming from his nose. Daddy's left eye had seen him, though. Daddy's left eye had blinked at him and the corners of his mouth had twitched.

  “Daddy,” Alan tried to whisper, but the words came out as hiss of air.

  “Son?” Wallace asked.

  Alan turned toward him, but looked past him. The man didn't seem to be real. The nearly empty lobby, the muted words over the intercom, the occasional nurse passing by in the hallway, none of it was real. He was back in his room while the thing outside smashed its way in, its fangs drooling blood onto the white door.

  “Alan?” Wallace's voice reached through the memory and Alan jumped with a start. He focused on the man in front of him. “You gotta stay awake, buddy.” The Sheriff raised himself from the bench, and moved two places over. He lowered his bulk into the seat next to Alan's. “Okay?”

  “Can't sleep,” Alan tried to say. His voice came out in a small, dusty croak.

  “Right,” the deputy said. The man leaned in toward him. “You cold, kid?”

  The blanket was doing little to warm him. Alan nodded. The deputy smiled at him. “I'll get you another blanket,” he said. He shook his finger at Alan. “You stay here, kid. Okay?” Alan said nothing, only nodded. Wallace sat up and left the small lobby and walked toward the nurses' station just outside.

  Alan watched him go. People wandered by the opening, some staring inside to see just a lone little boy with a lost expression on his face. Alan didn't meet their eyes. He couldn't. The white hallway wall was his door. His door that crumbled against the thing's battering fists.

  “Kid?” A large meaty hand snapped its fingers beneath his nose. “Hey, kid, wake up!” Wallace's voice growled. Alan looked up into the man's pale face. The deputy's eyes were frantic. Alan blinked at him. “Alan?”

  He was in a bed. The room's lights were low. A woman in red scrubs stood next to the bed. She held his hand, her index finger tapping against the V between his thumb and forefinger. He blinked at her. “Alan? You back?”

  “How--” Alan tried to say, but nothing came out. He coughed, his throat screaming with the pain.

  “Shhh, honey,” the nurse said. She was shorter than Mommy, her red hair tied up in a bun. She smiled at him. “Do you know where you are?”

  Alan shook his head, and then nodded.

  “Are you at home?”

  Alan shook his head and felt a tear squeeze from his eye.

  The smile on her face dimmed. “Are you in the hospital?”

  Alan blinked at her and then nodded.

  “Yes,” she said, trying to recapture her smile. “Good. I'm going to get the doctor,” she whispered. “Stay with me, okay?” Alan squeezed her hand twice. “I'll be right back.”

  She turned from him and walked out of the room. Alan's eyes hurt. They felt as though someone had filled them with dirt. He rubbed at them. He scrunched his eyes closed and then opened them.

  Sheriff Wallace appeared in the doorway. The man sighed with relief and waved to Alan. Alan didn't return the gesture.

  The doorway cleared again. Daddy's ruined face. The empty eye socket streaming blood, his broken and crunched nose, the awkward angle of his previously unbroken arm, the deep slashes through his clothes all up and down his chest...

  A light shined in his eyes. “Alan?”

  Alan blinked.

  “Okay, good,” a voice said. The penlight moved away from him. His eyes struggled to readjust from the bright light. A man older than Daddy hunched over his bed, salt and pepper hair shining beneath the bright fluorescents. “I'm Doctor Moody,” the man said. He placed the penlight back in the front pocket of his white lab-coat. “Do you know where you are?”

  “Yes,” Alan said. His voice had finally returned a little, but his throat still burned with the effort. “I'm at the hospital.”

  “Excellent,” the man said in a squeaky voice.

  “Where's my Daddy?” Alan asked.

  The man's smile faltered. He lowered his eyes for a moment, cleared his throat and then returned Alan's stare. “Your father is in surgery, Alan.” He cleared his throat again. The gentle smile on his face had faded into a flat line. “Your father needs you to help him.”

  “How?” Alan asked.

  “I need to know what happened, Alan.”

  Alan felt a shudder go through him. The Ice Cream Man. The thing. The yellow eyes with their fiery pupils.

  “Stay with me, Alan,” the doctor said. He snapped his eyes back to the doctor's. The doctor nodded to him. “Good. Can you tell me what happened?”

  “The bad man,” Alan said after a deep breath, “the Ice Cream Man got Daddy.” The words came out in a breathy rush that set his throat back on fire. “The bad man--” Alan's voice drifted off.

  Fingers snapped in front of his face. Alan looked up. The doctor's face peered at him. “Alan? You're having seizures.”

  “Just like Daddy?”

  The doctor frowned. “Yes, like Daddy. Who hurt your daddy?”

  “The Ice Cream Man hurt Daddy.”

  “Alan,” Moody said, leaning in so close the end of his nose nearly touched Alan's, “your Daddy is very sick. Something poisoned him.”

  “The Ice Cream Man poisoned Daddy.”

  Moody pulled back a little. He exchanged a glance with the nurse and then stared back at Alan. The smile on his face was somewhat forced. “Did the Ice Cream Man smell bad? Did he--”

  “The Ice Cream man eats little children,” Alan said. A tear made its way from his eye, but he didn't know why. He didn't feel anything anymore. “He told me he eats little kids like me.”

  “I--” Moody shook his head, stuttering.

  “He smells bad. Bad. Bad.”

  The room was dark. Alan had drifted off, drifted away until his mother's screams brought him awake, shivering and crying. He'd wet the bed. Outside in the hall, he heard distant conversation, shoes on tile, and the sound of squeaky wheels.

  There was another sound too. A scratching.

  “Hello?” Alan raised his head.

  A pair of yellow eyes winked at him from the foot of the bed, their centers burning like fire.

  Chapter 64

  The man, George, walked behind Alan down the hallway. The floor felt pliable, as though he were walking on a deep shag rug instead of tile. Since he started taking the pills, every footstep felt like that.

  George was a nice man. Big man. George always smiled at him, always asked him how he was doing. Alan thought George was a lot like Daddy. Before--

  “Here we go, Alan,” George said and placed a hand on Alan's shoulder.

  Alan stopped and turned as George opened the door. A table sat in the middle of the room. Alan smiled. “Tony,” he whispered.

  “Hey, kid,” Tony said, waving.

  Alan walked as fast as he dared on the flexible floor and sat in the chair across from Tony.

  “We're good, George,” Tony said. The door closed behind them. “And how are you today?” Tony asked, his smile wide and friendly.

  “Doing good,” Alan said. “I've been playing chess with George.”

  “Have you been beating him?”

  Alan looked over his left shoulder and then his right, as if checking to see if anyone was listening. He leaned in across the table and whispered “I think he lets me win.”

  Tony chuckled. “Uh-huh. That's okay, Alan. One day,” he whispered, “he won't need to.” Alan leaned back in the plastic chair and kicked his feet beneath the table. “I'm here to ask you a couple of questions.”

  “Okay,” Alan said.

  “You still seizing?”

  Alan shrugged. “Sometimes. George told me that when-- George said that I should stare at the clock when I feel bad, and see if a lo
t of time passes.”

  “And does it?”

  “Sometimes. I think about a minute or so is the longest.”

  Tony nodded. He wrote something down in his large notebook. “Good, that's real good, Alan. That means we're getting close with the drugs.”

  “Can I see my Daddy soon?”

  Tony's pen stopped in mid-scratch. He looked up from the notebook, his smile dampened. “We're going to talk about that in a minute, okay? I need to ask you some more questions first. All right?”

  Alan frowned. He knew the answer would be “no” or “not yet.” It always was.

  Tony had a tough time hiding his feelings from Alan. Alan didn't know why, but he could almost feel the man talking to him, as though he could sometimes hear what Tony was saying before he said it.

  “Okay,” Alan whispered.

  “Good,” Tony said. “George and the others say you're not sleeping very well.” Tony tapped the pen against the notebook. “Eyes?”

  Always the yellow eyes, the burning centers. Always staring into the eyes, losing himself in them like they are a whirlpool pulling him down and down and down--

  “Alan?”

  “What?”

  Tony looked down at his watch. “20 seconds that time, Alan. Do you remember what I asked you?”

  Alan nodded. “It's him.”

  “I'm not going to say his name, Alan. I know that upsets you. So, he still comes at night?” Alan nodded. “But all you see are the eyes?” Alan nodded again, watching Tony's smile flatten into a thin line. “Until we get seizing under control, there are lots of things we can't talk about.”

  “Can we talk about my Daddy now?” Alan asked.

  “Sure,” Tony said and dropped his pen to the notebook. He folded his hands into a tent, elbows on the table, and rested his head atop them. “Your Daddy's doing better, Alan. Much better.”