Splatterpunk Fighting Back

by Bracken MacLeod

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. Her ponytail whipped out like a propeller. “If we go back there, we’ll be killed too!”

  Bruce shushed her. He looked around. Nobody acted as if they’d heard her. The laughs and cheers of people enjoying themselves didn’t lower at all.

  “I have to go check it out,” he said. “That’s my job. I have to see if it’s what you said it is.”

  “I thought you believed me.”

  “I do, honey. But my bosses might not. That’s why you need me to check it out, so I can tell them that I saw it too. Understand?”

  “I guess,” she said in a low voice. “It’s a bad idea.”

  Wouldn’t be Bruce’s first bad idea. He’d had quite a few of them through his life. Only thirty-two, he’d already been married twice. Besides, he still didn’t quite believe Darla. Sure, something was wrong, but kids had the tendency to do and say outrageous things when they were mad at their parents. Most likely, he’d take her home and he’d find a pair of parents worrying about why a cop was escorting their kid home.

  “You said you could walk home, so it can’t be far, right?”

  She nodded. “I live over there.” She pointed toward the park’s exit.

  Following the path of her finger, he saw the entrance to Carriage Way across the street. From his patrols, he knew it was a wealthy neighborhood of big houses with small yards, a large public swimming pool, and a tennis court. “Hop on in,” he said. “Let’s go to your house.”

  Without speaking, Darla walked around the front of his car. She kept her head down, her ponytail hanging across her cheek, as she moved. He saw the top of her head appear at the passenger window. While she climbed in, he moved the sandwich out of her way. She sat back, put her hands on her knees, and tightly gripped them.

  She does seem to be scared about going home.

  “Hungry?” he asked. “I have a sandwich here.” He held it out. She shook her head. “There’s a pickle in that bag. You like pickles?”

  Nodding, Darla opened the paper bag beside her and pulled out a dill spear wrapped in cellophane.

  “Take it,” he said. “It’s yours. Got some root beer in the cup. I haven’t had any yet, so you don’t have to worry about my cooties.”

  Darla giggled. “I like you, Bruce.”

  Bruce smiled. It made him feel good, hearing her say that. “I like you too, Darla.”

  “I hope you don’t get killed when we go to my house.”

  Bruce’s smile felt heavy on his face. “Same here,” he muttered. Then he cranked the car. Since he was backed into the spot, he pulled forward and drove away from the park. The only sound in the car for a couple of minutes was the juicy crunches of Darla eating the pickle.

  He drove across the street and into the fancy neighborhood. An immaculate fountain with a concrete cherub balancing on one foot and whistling water greeted him on the way in. At night, it was lit up as if trying to signal its angel brethren in heaven.

  He passed gigantic houses on either side of the street, the lawns professionally cut and even, sprinklers jetting water in almost each one.

  “Which house is yours?”

  “Turn to the right when you come to the Henley Drive.”

  “You got it.”

  He heard the slurping sounds of the straw as Darla drank root beer. When he left here, he was going to have to go get more. He had no idea when that would be, though. If things turned out to be serious, it might be the end of his shift before he got to eat again.

  Hopefully, this was all a big misunderstanding.

  He felt a cramp in his gut that suggested he already knew it would not be so simple.

  He saw Henley Drive and took it. Darla told him her house was the last one on the left. The side street was a short one, ending at a wall of trees thick with colorful leaves. Pools of felled leaves had gathered against the concrete curbing.

  He turned the car into her driveway and drove up the tree-bordered lane. It felt as if his cruiser was climbing the ridge of a mountain. Elbow hanging on the door frame, he listened to the crispy sounds of his tires rolling over leaves. It was hard not to relish such a lovely day, but a quick glance at Darla reminded him he couldn’t allow himself to enjoy it right now.

  Reaching the top of the hill, the driveway leveled out and spread into a concrete circle in front of a large, two-story house. A big bay window stretched across the front behind a long and wide porch that reached all the way to the right side of the house. A two-car garage was on the left, underneath a set of curtained windows that probably belonged to a bonus room.

  He parked in front of the garage. He saw no other cars around.

  He twisted the key to kill the engine. Silence replaced the cruiser’s soft grumble. He heard no chirping birds, no airplanes flying overhead. Though the rocking swing hanging from chains on the porch swayed, there was no breeze to cause it.

  Bruce took a deep breath and turned to Darla, hoping he looked more relaxed than he felt. He saw she was gripping her knees again, the skin denting from the intense pressure of her fingers.

  “Want to wait out here while I go check it out?” he said.

  Darla’s face scrunched as if he’d just cocked his leg and let out a rattling fart. He took her apparent unease as a yes to his question.

  “Hang tight, okay?”

  Nodding, Darla leaned back, pulling her legs onto the seat so she could hug her knees.

  Bruce climbed out of the car and quietly closed the door behind him. He hadn’t meant to be discreet, but somehow it felt wrong to add any kind of noise to this odd quietness.

  Though it was a pleasant day with a comfortable temperature, he felt cold inside as he walked up the sidewalk. His shoes clacked on the concrete path, making hollow echoes against the house. He expected the front door to open any minute, but it remained shut while he climbed the steps and walked across the wood floor of the deck.

  Pushing the button for the doorbell, he stood with his hands on his belt while the chimes resounded from inside. He waited a minute before pushing the button again. After another minute passed, he began to think nobody was coming.

  Putting his forehead against the glass, he made a visor with his hand over his eyes. The frosted glass made it impossible to see inside. Frowning, he stood straight. Then he used the bottom of his fist to rap on the door. On the third hit, the door clicked and slowly swung inward to reveal a small foyer, a hallway that led to the back of the house, a doorway to the left that probably opened on the living room, and a set of stairs ahead of him.

  He felt a queasy pang in his stomach. Something wasn’t right. He’d searched many homes before and had found many disturbing things, but never before had he felt so nervous.

  Ease up, Bruce. You’re all right. Everything’s fine.

  From where he stood, he could hear the quiet tones of conversation. He could tell by the hollow quality of the voices that they were coming from a TV nearby.

  “Hello?” he called out. “Sgt. Bruce Thompson, Brickston Police Department. Anybody home?”

  Sighing, he turned away from the open door, and stepped over to the porch railing. He looked over to his cruiser.

  And saw the passenger door was open.

  Darla was no longer in the seat.

  “Shit,” he whispered. “Darla!” He hurried over to the steps, ready to descend them. He spotted Darla on her way up. He pursed his lips and huffed through his nose. A similar trait as his father, whenever he was growing annoyed with children. “What are you doing?”

  “I didn’t want to wait anymore.”

  “I understand. But I need you to stay in the car so I can…”

  “Please, Bruce…” Darla’s bottom lip bowed out. “I don’t want to be alone.”

  Bruce stared at her as she walked up the steps. When she was standing in front of him, she tilted back her head and looked at him with her big, brown eyes.

  Bruce sighed. “Fine. Just stay beside me. I’ll keep it quick.”

&nbs
p; “I’ll show you where the bedroom is.”

  Daddy’s head was torn off…

  “All right. But you wait in the hallway. Understand?”

  Darla nodded.

  “Let’s go.”

  Though he knew the bedroom was upstairs, he still took a moment to search downstairs. The rooms were devoid of human life. Other than the TV in the living room showing a cartoon about parent bears lecturing their two cubs about manners, there was no sign anyone had been home all day.

  Dirty dishes were in the sink, others drying in the rack. A vacuum-sealed lump of meat sat thawing in a bowl on the counter. There was a block filled with jutting handles of knives next to it.

  He noticed one slit was missing its knife. He hadn’t seen it in the sink.

  “Where’s that knife?” he asked.

  “Huh?”

  “The knife that’s supposed to go in that rack. It’s gone.”

  “Probably the dishwasher.”

  Checking the dishwasher himself, he spotted the knife inside, the sides crusted in old pie goop.

  “Are you done down here?” Darla asked. She was rocking from foot to foot.

  “Yep.” He forced a smile. “We’re in luck so far. No monsters down here.”

  “It’s not down here. It’s…” She looked up, pointed at the ceiling.

  Nodding, Bruce said, “Right. Upstairs.”

  Something gurgled in his gut.

  Upstairs, Bruce’s footsteps were silent on the carpet as he crept down the hall. The only sounds he heard were the stretching noises his belt made each time he moved. He kept his right hand close to his gun.

  “That it?” he asked, lifting his chin to the closed door at the end of the hall.

  “Yeah.” Darla’s voice barely made a sound.

  “All right. I’m going to call for them. Okay? Just wanted to give you a head’s up.”

  “They won’t answer. They…”

  He held out his hand to silence her. She listened. He repeated his announcement from downstairs, then added, “I’m heading toward your bedroom now. If you’re in there, I suggest you kindly exit the bedroom so we can get to the bottom of this.”

  No reply. A deeper wave of unnatural silence spread through the hallway, which insinuated his movements even more. Now he could hear his footsteps, the squishing carpet, the floor below it groaned. Could hear the rapid, shrill breaths of Darla beside him. And he could hear his heartbeat, like a hammer pounding solid wood, above everything else.

  He reached the bedroom door. He felt slightly dizzy and wanted to lie down.

  “All right,” he said in a whisper. “Stand behind me. Look over there and don’t you dare look inside unless I say it’s okay. Understand?”

  Darla moved behind his leg and turned toward the wall.

  Bruce thought about announcing himself one more time but decided it was pointless. He reached out with his left hand, fingers curling around the cool doorknob while his right hand flicked back the strap holding his gun in the holster. He put his fingers on the slick steel of his handgun.

  He turned the knob and gave it a gentle push. The door swayed open.

  And showed him more than he wished to ever see.

  “Holy hell…” he managed to say before gagging.

  At first, he thought the walls were covered in fresh red paint. He was wrong. Blood oozed down in thick rivulets, forming glutinous puddles on the carpet. The mattress was soaked with crimson, turning the cream-colored fabric translucent. He could see the imprints of the mattress below.

  A woman—Darla’s mother—was sprawled on the left side, legs spread wide, her sex ripped open and mangled, a gory hole ringed with glistening goo. It had been stretched wide to accommodate something massive. Her chest was raked in wide gashes from the bottom of her neck down to her belly button, peeling back the skin like curly ribbons. Her breasts, which had been chewed into knobs that resembled old bubble gum, sagged on each side like a jacket that didn’t quite fit her in the front.

  The only thing that hadn’t been either slashed or sprayed with blood was her face, which was frozen in a silent scream of horror.

  On the floor beside the bed was a headless, naked body. Though its groin had been mangled to a jagged stub, he was able to distinguish it as male by what flesh remained of its chest. Bones showed between the pulpy rips, gristly under sticky red gel.

  Then he spotted the head, laying its cheek on the other side of the room, staring at Bruce with its hollowed eyes and slack jaw.

  Bruce saw all of this in a flash and was stepping back and brandishing his gun by the time he finished blinking. He pulled the door shut and turned to where Darla had been standing.

  She was gone.

  Bruce looked toward the other end of the hall. She wasn’t at the stairs.

  “Darla!”

  He walked up the hall, throwing open each door he passed. He scanned a bathroom, broom closet, and a guest bedroom on his way to the final door. He opened it and noted the pink walls and dollhouses and stuffed animals spread across the floor.

  Darla’s room.

  Bruce entered and noticed right away how hot it was inside. From the coolness of the hallway, it reminded him of entering the steam room at the gym. The thick air robbed him of his breath and caused his skin to pour sweat. With each step he took, his pants clung higher and higher.

  All the evidence of a little girl’s room was before him. Except for the Ouija board spread open on her bed. Darla’s voice reverberated in his head.

  I let it out…

  A black cloth was open on the floor in front of her bed. Stones had been spread across the felt material to form a pentagram. A small glass of crimson liquid sat in the middle of a pile of feathers that looked as if they’d been freshly plucked from a chicken. When he spotted the pasty meat in the trash can, the feathered neck sagging over the rim, and the beak pointing at the floor, he realized that was exactly where the feathers had come from.

  I’ve been trying to send it back…

  “What the hell is going on here?”

  A thumping sound came from the right. He turned his head and saw a single door—the closet. Something shifted inside, sliding across the door hard enough to cause it to rattle the knob.

  “Darla? That you?”

  His pistol pointing ahead of him, he took slow steps forward. He saw crayon drawings taped to the walls, posters of popular kid’s shows, and plenty of spots where Darla had neglected the paper and scribbled right on the paint.

  He was a few steps away from the closet door when he heard a low, rumbling breath come from the other side of the door.

  Bruce stopped. He blinked sweat out of his eyes. “The hell was that…?”

  “Bruce?”

  Hollering, Bruce spun around. He shoved the gun forward, slipping his finger in front of the trigger. He saw someone across the room was pointing a gun back at him—a tall man, hands trembling as he fought to steady the weapon on Bruce’s chest.

  “Drop it!”

  The man mimicked his order, his movements.

  A mirror?

  An oval mirror atop a dresser showed him his terrified reflection. He couldn’t believe he was the pale, sweaty man in the glass with the strained face that suggested he was a rookie on his first call and not the ten-year veteran he really was.

  “Bruce?”

  Again, Bruce jumped. His finger almost pulled the trigger. Though he recognized Darla’s voice, he didn’t see her anywhere in the room.

  Then he looked down and saw the small face underneath the bed. The frilly skirt draped the top of her head.

  “Don’t go to the closet,” she said.

  “What?”

  “I don’t think it can hold it much longer.”

  Bruce tried to grasp what she was saying, but to him, it sounded like gibberish. He could hear the words clearly. Their meaning didn’t seem to exist.

  “What’s going on here, girlie? Tell me.”

  Tears trembled in the corners of h
er eyes. She blinked, sending them down her cheeks. “I was playing with the Wee-jee board. I saw my parents doing it one time at a party with their friends. It looked like fun. So I stole it and hid it in my room.”

  Another rumbling sigh came from the closet. Bruce looked over his shoulder and saw the door bulging outward and inward as if it were breathing.

  “God Almighty…”

  “I called it here,” she said. “I didn’t mean to…but…it tricked me. I thought I was talking to a girl my age. I…don’t have any friends at school, and I just wanted a friend…”

  “Darla…What have you done?”

  “It told me what to do so it could come over here…It said it was trapped in the Dark Place and it needed me to let it out. I thought it was a girl…a friend. I just wanted a friend…”

  The door crackled as it continued to expand like a wood balloon. Fissures began to appear in the white paint.

  “Darla,” he said. “We have to go now.”

  As if to prove his warning was too late, the door exploded in a cloud of wood shards and splinters. The brunt of the blast threw Bruce off his feet. He felt spiky pieces stabbing into his face, his neck. His left eye felt as if it had been punched, then it went black as a strong stinging current pushed into his skull.

  His back whammed the bed. The springs squawked as the mattress bounced him into the air. Twirling upward, he hit the bottom of the bed and rolled off the side. He landed on his back on the floor.

  He wasn’t sure how long he stayed there, eyes staring at the ceiling as his vision blurred and focused and blurred again. But when he heard Darla screaming, he snapped out of it and managed to sit up.

  Right away, he knew that his left eye had been damaged. He could still see with it, but half his vision looked as if he were gazing through a red lens. But when he looked over to where the screams had been coming from, he wished the wood shards had blinded him.

  He saw a…creature. No more than four-foot-tall, its skin was a combination of red and purple, as if its creator had run out of one color and completed its complexion with the other. Its legs were bowed, the feet like a lizard’s, webbed toes and skin between them, tipped with claws that were digging into the carpet.