by Ian Woodhead
Then he saw the bloodied handprint halfway up the fridge door.
He dropped to the floor, mop handle ready to thrust at anything charging towards him. He peeked around the cooker, seeing nothing. He cursed himself for being so noisy and for not listening to his instincts. The only thing moving was a line of tiny black ants walking up the corner of the fridge door heading for that handprint. He hated ants; horrible, loathsome things that they were. He checked round the corner once more then stood up, grabbed a bottle of multi surface cleaner,dropped down again and gave the little bastards a good dose.
The only thing that made sense was that whoever broke into his shop must have seen Dave watching him. If that was the case then poor Dave may now be in the same state as his pet shop.
Oh crap, here he was hiding behind a pissing cooker and his friend could be dying. Pete stood up and rushed through the kitchen and into Dave’s living room, mop handle held above him.
His bravado left him as soon as he found the room empty. Save for the absence of Dave, his living room looked as it always did, clean and sparse. He found it a little odd how he kept all his rooms in the house so spotless yet the kitchen had always been a complete shithole, until now that was.
He spotted half a cigarette left in an ashtray on his coffee table. The tip was still alight so he couldn’t have gone that far. The cup behind it was still half full; he touched the side, still warm. Where the bloody hell was he? And that handprint on the fridge, who did it belong to? Pete hurried over to the door leading upstairs, it was wide open. He peeked up.
“Dave? Are you up there?” He put his hand on the banister, intending to go up, then snatched it back. There was another bloody handprint there and he’d put his hand straight in it.
“Dave?” he shouted. “For crying out loud mate, are you up there?” His bravery only went so far and it did not stretch to going up those stairs. A deep low noise emanating from above answered his call. That sounded like an elephant or at least something the size of one, he looked at the blood on his hand and then back up the stairs.
“I’m sorry Dave,” he whispered. “I can’t do this. I’m not the…”
The room above him shook, chunks of plaster fell from the ceiling, covering the carpet and his head and shoulders in grey dust; he reached out and grabbed one of Dave’s coat’s to balance himself. His mouth dried up.
Pete was rooted to the carpet, the bones in his legs had transformed to soft clay. The door at the top of the stairs exploded, sending wood splinters hurtling down the stairs.
Hundreds of tiny, blue tendrils felt their way along the wall at the top of the stairs, searching and probing. He somehow knew what they were looking for. Flesh; they sensed the blood stain on the wooden banister and slivered en mass towards it. Pete’s paralysis broke. He dropped his pathetic weapon and charged out of the hallway, through the living room and into the kitchen slamming the door behind him. Pete rested his head against the door trying not to imagine what his fate would have been if he had climbed those stairs.
“Fee fi fo fum, I smell the blood of a pet shop man.” The sound of his own voice startled the hell out of him. Now he was talking to himself. Maybe he was going mental, just like Margaret’s eldest lad. Pete was insane and all this was an illusion or some deranged dream. He lifted his head off the door watching his sweat trickle down the wood. That looked real.
A herd of rhinos rampaged across the room above him. He could accept that he was ready for the funny farm but there was no way in hell that he was going back to those stairs again. That thing up there was real, no doubt about that. The wet patch in his boxers was all the evidence he needed. He wiped the rest of the sweat off his forehead then took one more step back, he had difficulty taking his eyes off the door, expecting it the break apart at any moment, and he took another step back and slipped on something wet. His feet almost gave out. He grabbed the work surface to steady him then looked down.
The floor tiles were streaked with blood and shit. He saw something move out of the corner of his eye; he jerked up and spotted what looked like a pair of black and white furry legs being dragged into the yard. That was Casper. Oh the poor little sod. Something must have attacked him and dragged the carcass outside to finish it off. The dog’s insides were now outside and he was standing in them.
Years of cleaning up after countless animals had toughened his constitution but the kitchen floor was just swimming in the stuff, even he could feel his stomach turning. It looked like an abattoir floor.
Why didn’t it smell? The stench from the shit alone should have been strong enough to singe his nostril hairs. Pete couldn’t explain why he was even asking that question. It didn’t matter. What should concern him was whatever had attacked the dog had taken it outside to eat, cutting off his escape route. He looked out of the window hoping to see it but only saw his own twisted reflection gazing back at him.
He couldn’t go out there, not without a weapon, he wished he had kept the splintered stick now. Apart from a butter knife in the sink, he could see nothing else. He made a grab for the knife then kicked himself for being so stupid. Pete opened the cutlery drawer and picked out Dave’s soft-grip, self-sharpening carving knife. It was a poor substitute for the pointy stick he’d lost but it was better than nothing.
Holding the knife out in front of him, he picked his way through the mess and looked out into the yard expecting to see his imaginary lion holding Casper in its jaws.
The thing gazing back at him, the kitchen light reflecting it its milky eyes, wasn’t a lion or anything else he had seen or imagined. The creature was a total abomination.
It looked like a giant rat’s foetus. It looked like Dr. Frankenstein had worked on it with a chainsaw. He saw the tartan collar stretched around its shiny neck. The thing in front of him was Dave’s dog, oh God, it looked like it wanted him to pet it.
Seeing that it wasn’t going to be fussed over, it went back to lapping up the mop water. As it drank, bubbly, red foam seeped out of the deep lacerations down the creature’s back.
It licked that flagstone dry and moved off to the next puddle, dragging its mangled hind legs behind it. He reckoned that Casper - or whatever the hell it was now, had gotten a little too close to those tendrils.
The thought of how close he had been to being caught urged him to get a move on. Pete stepped out into the yard, still holding the knife out in front of him. He doubted that the creature would attack him but he wasn’t going to take the risk. He approached it with caution. It seemed to be too concerned with drinking the spilt water than him getting closer to it. As he stepped over the mutated animal’s back, the house shook. He felt the vibration going through his body. The creature looked at him then back at the house before starting to squeal, it crawled out from under him and headed for the other side of the yard.
Pete knew what was happening, the creature couldn’t get down the stairs so it came through the ceiling instead. He watched in horror as the kitchen changed colour from white to bright blue and when the first tendril emerged from the open doorway he turned tail and ran to the gate.
Getting out was far easier than getting in. it was just a matter of pushing the button embedded into the door frame and turning the handle at the same time but his hands were shaking so much, he couldn’t keep his finger on the button before turning the handle.
The blue tendrils slid along the flagstones and coiled around Casper, cutting off the screaming. He had no idea why the dog had been targeted first unless it was to settle old scores; maybe the thing preferred mutant dog meat to human meat then again who gave a fuck. Another clump of tendrils flew out of the door, Pete knew that these would be heading for him and wrapping around his body and turning him into a big bundle of blue string.
Pete head-butted the gate and the sudden pain brought his hand under control. He pressed the button and pulled open the gate. As he left the yard, one tendril wrapped around his ankle, tripping him up and he fell onto the cobbles, dropping his knife. He watched i
t bounce on the cobbles before falling down a drain. Another tendril joined the first one, Pete twisted onto his back and stretched out and pushed his fingers through the rusted wire mesh opposite Dave’s fence. He held on tight and tried to get his other hand into the fence as well. The large clump of tendrils had almost reached his feet. If that stuff got him as well, then he was dead.
The two holding him felt like they were pulling his leg off. He got his other hand through the fence then screamed and let both hands go. He’d grabbed a fist full of stinging nettles. The two tendrils pulled him back.
This was it, his life was over. He tried and failed to find purchase on the smooth cobbles. “I hope you choke on me you fucking bastard.” he shouted.
Then the gate swung back, cutting through the tendrils like cooked spaghetti. Pete snatched his leg back, scrambled up and hobbled away. The thing in the yard smashed into the wood, the noise sounded like a gunshot but the gate held. Pete tried to get more speed out of his legs before it learned to climb the fence. It hit the gate one more time then fell silent. Pete hoped that it had forgotten about him.
He reached the street and crossed over the road intending to get to his car and drive out of here.
Fuck the break in and fuck Dave. His immediate plans now consisted of tending to his injuries and then getting drunk. He prayed that the copious amount of alcohol would flush away the memories of tonight’s terrible events.
Pete stood in front of the car door, and then shut his eyes. His head was murdering him. He wouldn’t be surprised if he had given himself concussion.
When he opened them he was standing in the pet shop, his back against the door.
“What the fucking hell is going on?” he cried.
“Pete? Pete is that you mate?”
That voice sounded familiar. He peered through the gloomy shop and could just about make out the shape of a man crouching by the till.
“Dave?”
Upon hearing his name, Dave scuttled out from his hiding place. Pete just gaped at this old man shivering in front of him and refused to believe it was the same person. Where had his rock gone? That tower of a man who had been his mentor and protector for all those years? This wreck wasn’t him.
“Did you see them?” he asked. “The snakes, hundreds of them. Big, blue snakes. I thought they were going to catch me.”
Dave’s nose was running and he didn’t seem to care. He then stared at where Pete was stood.
“You’ve got shit on your shoes. I’ve got a tissue somewhere...”
“Never mind about that!” he snapped. “What on Earth happened in here?”
He wouldn’t answer. Dave just kept staring at his feet. There was something in his hand, something white. He saw Pete looking then brought it up to his mouth and bit into it.
“I tell you.” he said, still chewing. “I’ve never been so scared in my God damned life.”
“What are you eating?”
Dave lifted his hand then unfolded his fingers displaying the body of a mouse. The head was missing.
“Want a bite?”
Pete spun around and tried to open the door. That was it; he was out of here…only the door wouldn’t move.
It wasn’t jammed. Dave had his weight against it.
“Move the hand,” he growled through his clenched teeth.
The only response he received was a light chuckle. At that moment, he knew for a fact that if he still had possession of that soft grip knife, he would have plunged it straight into Dave’s mocking mouth.
He grabbed the offending arm with both hands. Intending to shift it himself but it wouldn’t budge; he would have had an easier time moving a marble statue. He felt questing fingers stroking the back of his head.
“Hush up.” replied Dave. He grabbed Pete’s hair, pulled his head back then slammed it into the door. Pete’s world exploded. He hit the pet shop floor like a dropped sack of potatoes and then a foot pushed him over onto his back.
He assumed that the huge shadow looming over him must be Dave, yet it couldn’t be, he wasn’t that tall. Pete struggled to keep his eyes open. He needed his vision to clear; he had to see who it was.
His battered body was denying him that option, it was about to shut down, to sink him into oblivion. His battle to keep his eyes open was lost.
“Don’t make me hit you again.”
Pete jumped but refused to open his eyes, he decided that he liked it dark. Warm liquid sprayed against his face. He turned his head to one side and brought up his arms in an attempt to stop the liquid assault.
Dave had just pissed on him. The dirty, vile bastard.
“The monsters are coming, Pete. If you cringe and cower, you’ll die. The creatures you saw were amalgamations. I don’t know what their true shapes will be.”
He reached down and seized Pete’s chin.
“Prepare yourself.”
Dave arched back, threw his arms into the air and screamed. His whole body filled out. His clothes ripped apart, the shredded fabric landing at his feet. Dave’s skin stretched, tearing in places. The noises issuing from Dave’s outstretched jaw were unbelievable, Pete thrust his hands against his ears, blocking some of it out. When wet chunks of Dave’s flesh rained down on him, he screamed too.
Pete sat up in bed, the stale, cold sweat gluing his pyjamas to his shivering body. His dog, lying at the foot of his bed, looked up questioningly and chuffed once.
“You don’t want to know, buddy.”
Chapter Ten
The persistent buzzing jolted her from her light sleep into a snooze. There was a wasp in the room. Oh, crap. Jen hated wasps more than anything. Horrible, hateful things they were.
She had to get rid of it, couldn’t have it landing on her. Jen’s dozing brain assured her that she held a rolled up newspaper in her right hand so she used it the bat the menace away from her face.
The contents of her bottled, flavoured water splashed across her cheeks and the rest of it landed in her lap. She opened one eye and watched the wet patch spread over her pale jeans.
“Oh great,” she muttered. “Now I look like I’ve just pissed myself.”
She stood up, booted the bottle across the room then picked a towel out of Tony’s dirty wash basket to blot the excess off. She knew she should have picked up a drink with a sports cap.
God, she really was a dozy cow. Jen threw the towel back and examined the damage. Even in the dim light, it looked like she had a weak bladder. She flopped back down in the chair and pushed Damien onto his side in a futile attempt to stop him snoring.
Tony was going to laugh himself stupid when he saw this. Why hadn’t she brought a change of clothing?
“Jen, have you got a minute?”
She nearly fell out of her chair.
“Jesus Tony, you scared the shit out of me.”
He stood in the room, leaning against the door and trying not to smirk. He’d noticed the stain.
“Just one sarcastic word out of you and I’ll boot you into next week.”
Tony looked like he’d just been punched. “What do you take me for?” he replied, “Like I would take the rip out of my little sister just because her incontinence bag split open.”
Tony ducked when one of Damien’s shoes hurtled towards him. Damien’s coat started to buzz. Tony picked it off the hook and shook it; his phone fell out and bounced off the carpet. Jen snatched it up and slid the keypad down. Damien had twenty one missed calls from Alan.
“Gee, I wonder who’s ringing Damien up at this time.”
“There’s no need to be so sarcastic.”
“And there’s no need for you to defend him all the time.”
She sighed, switched the phone off and tucked it into Damien’s trouser pocket. Jen saw no point in waking him up just because Alan had summoned him.
“Sorry Jen. I didn’t mean that, it’s just that the lad seems to have the knack of taking centre stage even when he isn’t here.”
He was right. The relationship Alan had
with his brother was beginning to grind even her down; sometimes she wondered which one she was supposed to be going out with.
“I should be the one to apologise; I didn’t mean to snap at you.” Jen wanted to smile to show him that he hadn’t hurt her feelings but she kept her gaze fixed on the back of Damien’s sleeping head, afraid that if she did look at Tony, she’d burst into tears.
“There’s a spare dressing gown in the cupboard, Jen. When you’ve sorted yourself out, come downstairs, there’s something I want to show you.”
Jen was crying before the door closed. It wasn’t fair. Why couldn’t he have just given her one night with Damien without trying to play gooseberry? What could be so important that couldn’t wait until the morning?
She got out of the chair and opened the cupboard. Alan could go fuck himself. Damien was hers tonight and after sorting Tony out she was going to come back up here and sort Damien out. She smiled and pulled out Tony’s old Doctor Who dressing gown and started to strip.
The sound of Tony’s fingers dancing across his PC keyboard greeted her as she ventured out of the bedroom. She wasn’t at all surprised to find that whatever he wanted to show her was on his computer. Tony’s world seemed to revolve around the bloody thing. She threw her wet things into his dryer and turned the dial. Tony was obsessed with hi-tech gadgets. Jen gazed up at the replica Star Wars blaster fastened to the wall and shook her head. When most folk first saw her brother, their first thought was usually bouncer or thug. Tony was the living example that appearances meant nothing.
