Terror Town

by James Roy Daley

  They drove in silence for a moment.

  “I dreamt about it for years. I figured one day I’d be making my way to school, or playing in the yard, and out it would come. The real Bigfoot, that’s what it was to me: the real Bigfoot. That blurry photograph that gets pimped around is a joke, I tell you. It’s a joke. This thing in the Time-Life book looked like it could tear your head from your neck in seconds. It was the real deal. And at night I’d keep my eyes glued to the window… waiting… watching… thinking it would come.

  “I never told my parents about my sleepless nights. I couldn’t. I wasn’t supposed to see those books and I knew it, so I laid in bed scared of what was out there, scared Bigfoot was coming to get me.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” William looked in his rearview mirror again. The car was still there, driving so close that William wondered if the guy behind the wheel had an attitude problem. He touched the break pedal, trying to encourage the driver to back off a little.

  Get off my ass, he thought. You’re way too close.

  Beth placed a hand on William’s shoulder, saying, “Because Will… I know you, and I can see how upset you are. There are a lot of strange things in this world and not all of them get talked about television or gawked at in a zoo. Some of these unknown beasts don’t like getting looked at. Some of them get angry. Some of them feel threatened, and sometimes they fight back. This might be only place in the world those creatures exist. Ever think of that? We may have discovered a new species.”

  “No,” William said. “I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

  Beth nodded.

  She felt smart, but was wrong in her assessment.

  Such creatures had been discovered before. Twice. The first nest was uncovered behind a wooden church in the northern regions of Hungary in 1276. Soon after, the church, and the village closest to it, was burned to the ground. One hundred and forty-nine years later three more nests were discovered, high upon the slopes of the Transylvanian Alps.

  The year was 1425.

  Those nests were never destroyed.

  And in a seemingly unrelated topic, the madman known as Vlad Draçulas Tepes was born five years later, eight miles away.

  8

  Daniel tried to be brave but his plan was only half realized. The details of Patrick Love’s heroic rescue were beyond him. He wanted to save his friend, and he was willing to put himself in danger to do so. But what could he do, and how could he do it? Questions, it seemed, were easier to find than answers.

  He pulled his t-shirt off and tossed it to the floor. An off-white dress shirt was lying across the arm of a chair. He needed something clean, and the shirt was right there, so Dan threw it on and buttoned it. It would have to do.

  Now Dan was standing near the basement door with his ear to the wood. He couldn’t hear anything. Not a peep. He put his hand on the doorknob and applied some pressure. He turned the knob. The latch gave and Dan wondered if his nerves would give with it.

  He looked at the gun. Was he ready to use it? Maybe.

  This was the moment of truth.

  After clearing his throat, he swung the basement door open. His heart rate increased and his fingers trembled. Stepping back, he pointed the weapon nervously. He was ready, willing, and able to fire a shot.

  The stairwell was empty.

  “Still in the shaft,” he whispered, exhaling a great and dramatic breath. Somehow it seemed like a mixed blessing.

  He walked down the stairs trusting that the creature wasn’t hiding around a corner. He was right. The room was the same as before. The trapdoor was closed; the floor was littered with hammers and saws, drills and screwdrivers, crowbars and wrenches. Rolls of carpet sat next to the rotting pickets on the warped staircase. Hellboy’s doggy-corpse was in the heart of the room, lying inside a puddle of coagulating blood.

  The poor, unfortunate thing.

  Hellboy’s face looked like it had been caught in the gears of heavy machinery. Its eyes were open, staring into space. Teeth had been smashed free.

  Dan sighed. The dog’s mangled snout was upsetting. It made him feel angry, sad, and confused, all at the same time. He ran his dirty fingers through his sweaty hair, wondering why Cameron turned so mean, so evil. It was almost like she had been possessed. He had never seen anything like it.

  His eyes shifted.

  The trapdoor wasn’t bouncing up and down or straining against its hinges, which he supposed was a good thing. Things had turned quiet. Hopefully that meant that Pat was safe and not dead.

  He considered his options, finding the reasonable ones to be conflicting.

  On one hand, he should wait for the police to arrive. More manpower and weaponry could only help. On the other hand, Pat needed assistance now. Not in five or ten minutes. Not in an hour. He needed it now. And waiting often led to more waiting, and authoritative assistance usually lead to red-taped bureaucracy.

  Waiting was the easiest road to travel, but was it the right choice? Would it lead Pat to safety, or guarantee his death? These were the questions that ran through Dan’s mind with inconsistent translations. These were the choices that made his heart ache.

  Dan made his way to the trapdoor and got down on both knees. His wounded leg throbbed as he did so. After placing the gun on the floor he put his ear to the wood and listened. He couldn’t hear anything at first. But then he could hear something. Didn’t know what it was, but the image of a seashell came to mind. That’s what he heard, the sounds of the sea, the winds and the waves, the water splashing against the rocks on the shore.

  It was an illusion, of course. Not an optical illusion but an audible one. He couldn’t hear anything. The beast wasn’t there, or if it was, it was being very quiet.

  He lifted the gun.

  Assuming I don’t want to wait for help to arrive, Daniel thought, what now?

  Opening the trapdoor was an option easier said than done. He was afraid of this option. It might end his life.

  Dan considered the alternatives.

  He could blast a few bullets into the shaft, but what would that achieve? Would he kill the beast, make it angry, or shoot a hole into his friend? Blind shooting was risky, very risky. He needed more choices.

  He could fire up the chainsaw and carve a hole in the door to see what he was getting himself into. He liked this idea more than opening the door blindly, which seemed like suicide. But what were the pros and cons of using a chainsaw?

  Pro: Patrick would hear the saw running and know someone was coming.

  Con: so would the creature.

  Daniel put the barrel of the gun against the wood. Still kneeing, his legs were beginning to ache more than he could tolerate.

  “Patrick,” he shouted; his voice cracked. “You there?” He waited three or four seconds, cleared his throat, and tried his luck again. “Patrick? If you can’t answer me that’s fine, but I want you to know we haven’t forgotten you! I haven’t forgotten you! I’m coming down but first I’m going to fire a couple bullets into the shaft. If you’re in the shaft stay close to the ladder. Do you hear me? I’m going to fire some bullets into the shaft!”

  Daniel squeezed the trigger the smallest amount. Doing so made him more nervous than before. This was a dangerous plan. What if he pissed the animal off and it smashed through the door looking for revenge?

  “Do you hear me? Do you? Here it comes, Pat! Stay close to the ladder! On the count of three! One! Two! Three!”

  Daniel pulled the trigger twice. BLAM. BLAM. The noise was loud and the weapon shook violently in his hand. The smell of the gunpowder and oil mixed together made his nose irritated.

  He listened but he didn’t hear anything. He put his ear to the door.

  Nothing.

  “Pat! Are you okay? Patrick?” He began to suspect that his friend was already dead. It was more than possible; it was probably to be expected. But he didn’t want to think that way. Not yet. Not until he was sure.

  “Screw this,” he whispered, pulling hi
mself to his feet.

  It was time to get the chainsaw.

  9

  Cameron sat up quickly. The wind blew in her face through the open window causing her dark hair to dance wildly in the air. Her makeup was smudged. Her skin was more pale than usual; her blood loss was apparent. One hand sped through the air and grabbed the side of William’s face before he had a chance to look in the rearview mirror to look at her. As she bunched William’s skin into her palm, Cameron’s other hand latched onto Beth’s hair and yanked on it fiercely, like she was trying to pull Beth’s head from her body.

  William screamed, more shocked than hurt. He shifted away from her, moving his head towards the open window, while fighting off the attack with his right hand. The car swerved. His foot pressed hard on the gas pedal and the vehicle sprang forward, heading into the wrong lane.

  Cameron was thrown back, but continued to grip Beth’s hair.

  Beth squawked like a seagull. Her head snapped back and her throat stretched awkwardly. Pain stunned her body. She thought her neck would break. Positioning herself defensively, she grabbed Cameron’s right arm with both of her hands and pinched her fingernails into her skin, shouting, “Stop it!”

  Cameron’s face contorted into a vile and repugnant sneer. She clawed at William again with her left hand, scratching a line of blood in his cheek.

  As William tried to knock her hand away his foot to slipped from the pedal. He turned the wheel right, trying to recapture his lane. Overcompensating, the car veered off the gravel. Tires smashed through a patch of long grass. The car hit a street sign that said: HIDDEN INTERSECTION. The old wooden pole snapped into three separate pieces and cracked the windshield as it went flying over the hood. Wood bounced across the road like a drunken break-dancer. The car went into a ditch. The front grill mashed into the earth and the vehicle made an abrupt halt.

  Everyone lurched forward. The steering wheel smashed William in the chin and a sprinkle of light danced before his eyes. Beth’s seatbelt made a CLICK sound as it locked around her body, asphyxiating her momentarily. Cameron flipped into the front seat. Her head banged off the radio as she landed between William and Beth. The car’s back tires lifted a foot from the ground and then bounced down hard. As the car landed dust puffed into the air.

  Cameron flexed her muscles, opened her mouth and chomped William’s leg as hard as she was able. As the pain shot through his body she scrambled towards the open window with her elbows flailing and her feet thrashing.

  Beth covered her face with her hands. Dirty shoes pummeled her: Doc Martins, size seven. The kicks came fast and often. One snuck through her finger-blockade and smacked her in the mouth. Her lip cracked, leaving a metallic taste on her tongue. Now there was heel crunching her nose. Now there were toes kicking her breasts. Now there was a foot jammed into the side of her thick neck, ramming her towards the open window. It was too much. It was all happening too fast. It seemed as though someone had released a ravenous hyena inside the car.

  “Get off,” Beth coughed out, as rubber slammed into her eye. She tried to push the foot away but was unable. Cameron was too aggressive.

  Arms and legs thrashed.

  And as Cameron pulled her body through the open window on the driver’s side of the car, her legs dragged across William’s face and her feet kicked the roof. She knocked the rearview mirror from the newly cracked windshield and the mirror fell onto Beth’s lap.

  William shouted, “Stop it!”

  Gravity pulled Cameron towards the earth, helping her escape. And with another shift of weight it was over. She was outside.

  Beth held a shaky hand to her mouth. Blood dripped through her fingers. Her teeth hurt and her neck muscles throbbed. She said, “What’s that girl doing?”

  William looked out the window.

  With a hand on his chest, he said, “Cameron!?” He wasn’t sure if he was mad at her, worried about her, or scared to death of her. Might have been a mix of all three.

  Cameron was on the ground with her shirt ripped open and her face in the dirt. The wound on her back was covered in blood and puss.

  Hesitantly, William reached for the door handle, wondering if he should open the door or roll up the window. The little voice inside his head––the one that didn’t enjoy getting brutally attacked––wanted the window up and the door locked.

  But it’s Cameron, he thought. She’s family.

  And dangerous, the little voice was quick to point out. Very dangerous. She’s not to be trusted, not even for a moment.

  William felt his heart ache.

  Suddenly Cameron sprang to her feet and hissed like a rattlesnake. Her eyes were dark and vacant. Her teeth were covered in dirt and blood. And there was something attached to her, something colorless and threadlike, clinging to the skin around her neck. The fragile network resembled the fiber of a spider’s web.

  William gasped at the sight of her.

  Cameron hissed again. The cords in her neck pulsed.

  Convulsing and trembling, she stumbled in front of the car and slammed a fist on the hood. Using both hands, she grabbed her shirt and ripped it from her body. She might have looked funny, like a sad imitation of the Hulk, if not for the grave expression on her sick face. The black cloth fell to the gravel. Her SEX PISTOLS button rolled into the grass. She unlatched her bra and let it fall, exposing her breasts to them both.

  “My God,” Beth said.

  William whispered, “What’s she doing?”

  He couldn’t believe what he was seeing, and felt ashamed for looking. But he was looking; he was staring right at her. He couldn’t help it. He couldn’t pull his eyes away from her chest, and what he saw made him tremble.

  Cameron’s breasts were covered in silky mesh. Her dark and rigid nipples were almost crusted with webbing. And worse than that, tiny bugs were crawling across her skin. They looked like crabs.

  Running and staggering, Cameron made her way up the far side of the ditch and over thirty feet of meadow. She pulled off her shoes and her socks, unlatched her belt, and unzipped her pants. Her pants came off. Her underwear came off next.

  She hissed at the car one final time and ran into the woods naked. And once she was completely surrounded by the dark shadows of the forest she crawled up a tree and wrapped both hands around a branch.

  This is where she stayed.

  She was changing, and needed to be alone.

  10

  Daniel didn’t walk and he didn’t run. He stomped his way out of the basement, through the house, and out the front door. His eyes had a mean attentive glint, his teeth were clamped together, and his lips were pursed into a chiseled sneer. He looked ready to pick a fight, which in effect, was exactly what he was doing.

  Standing inside the garage, he slid his gun in-between his belt and his jeans. He pulled his chainsaw off the top shelf, checked the gas gauge, and stormed back into the house.

  Approaching the trapdoor, he pulled the cord on the saw. The chain-blade began spinning. He wasn’t a thinking-man now. The time for good judgment and clear logic had ended. He was at war, ready to do battle. He wasn’t afraid or nervous; he was excited, energized. It was a time for combat. He was ready to show the beast who was paying the electric bill around here, because this was his place, dammit. He bought it, paid for it, cleaned it, and loved it. The house belonged to him and he wouldn’t share it with a killing machine. That concept was not an option.

  The chainsaw was loud and powerful, with teeth that could bite.

  Daniel smiled. His hair had become untamed and chaotic. His dress shirt seemed ironic, not elegant. His knuckles had turned white and his breathing was labored. His features expressed a growing hint of lunacy, the Joker without his make-up.

  The spinning blade hit the trapdoor. Wood splintered. Sawdust clouded the area.

  He hoped the beast was there, waiting on the other side. He wanted to take the monster on and get it over with.

  He imagined the creature’s legs being sawed off and the
blood splashing the walls around him. He could almost see chunks of meat and bone flying over his shoulders in bunches. He could visualize the animal’s retreat into a dark corner, wounded and bleeding, screeching for mercy.

  It would receive none.

  It would receive death.

  Chunks of wood dropped into the pit, the saw kept spinning, Daniel began laughing and the hole grew larger than he intended. He wanted a hole to see through, roughly three inches squared. What he generated was a two feet by two feet opening, big enough to crawl through. Or fall through.

  Realizing this, his confidence faltered.

  He wondered if the creature would attack through the opening, or squeeze through the hole somehow.

  “Screw it,” Dan whispered. He didn’t care. Not anymore.

  If the creature rammed a leg through the opening he’d saw it off. If the creature broke the door he’d kill it. He was planning on slaying it anyhow. Nothing had changed. Nothing had altered. He was on the warpath; nothing would stand in his way.

  He pulled the chainsaw away from the trapdoor and looked down the hole. He couldn’t see anything. Then, as the dust in the air dissipated, he knew the creature was no longer there. He could see the floor, way down at the other end of the shaft. Chunks of wood and the broken light sat together in a pile. With the lights in the big room on, the bottom of the shaft was easy to see. And it was way down there.

  He opened the mangled trapdoor and dropped the chainsaw on the floor.

  It was time to enter the pit.

  11

  Pat stood in the doorway, which divided the two large rooms, eying the cocoon-like nests that were attached to the wall.

  And that’s what they are too, he thought. Oversized nests.