The Nightmare Room (The Messy Man Series Book 1)

by Chris Sorensen

  A leaning tower of cardboard boxes in the corner next to the utility sink caught his eye. His father’s trademark scrawl adorned each and every one.

  Speak of the devil.

  Peter maneuvered past a stack of crumbling drywall and shined the light on the boxes. They were variously labeled Taxes, Receipts and Personal. He flipped opened the top of the first box—the cardboard dissolved in his hand like flaking skin.

  As advertised, the boxes contained records of businesses past, bills accrued, debts paid. He was more interested in those marked Personal. And of course, they were at the bottom of the heap.

  As he dragged down the upper boxes and set them down, creating a reverse version of the tower, he wondered at their being here. More than likely, his father had moved them to this basement when he gave up his office on the square and the storage units. His mother hated clutter, hated mess. She liked precision and routine and was thrown off course by so much as a cabinet door left ajar.

  “Peter! Bill! Close the GD cabinets! You men. You GD men!”

  He didn’t know then what he knew now. That his mother’s mean streak had a name and that it could be tempered by medication. No wonder his father had brought his messy, man business to this basement where it could spread out without fear of reprisal.

  The bottommost boxes had been crushed by the weight of those above. Peter unfolded the crisscrossed top panels and gazed within.

  His sister’s toothy grin stared up at him through cracked glass. It was her high school graduation photo, and Peter swore she had never looked happier. Happy to get out of town, no doubt. Out from under Mom. Gina suffered her moods differently than he and his father had. His mother made his sister her confidant, tried to pit her against the males in the house.

  “We know, don’t we, Gina? You and I? Men are dogs. They’re filthy dogs.”

  Her effort hadn’t worked. It had only driven Gina away, leaving his mother alone with that man.

  Poor Dad.

  Peter sorted through the rest of the contents. There were a few unframed photos of himself from when he was a teen, baby Gina holding a stuffed giraffe, a candid shot of his mother and father at an ice cream social. His father was laughing; his mother was not.

  The remaining items in the Personal boxes were his father’s various ribbons for barbeque excellence, a plaque from the Rotary Club and an assortment of pen sets and desk calendars. And that was it—a sparse collection.

  He set these boxes atop the others for later and realized that in doing so, he had already begun to believe that there would be a later. Hannah was on a trajectory after months of stagnation. Who was he to stop it?

  Clink.

  Peter turned. The sound came again, the clink of metal on metal. Peter raised his phone and swept the basement.

  Nothing.

  Clink.

  He pinpointed the direction of the noise and headed that way. Back into the bowels of the basement, past a rack of shovels and rakes, past stacks of paint cans and coils of garden hose.

  His light fell on a door.

  Peter had to move closer to confirm what had at first seemed a trick of his eyes—there were deep scratch marks dug into the wood.

  The gouges were high up on the door, ruling out the scrabbling work of an animal. And they were spaced evenly, suggesting they were made by…

  A hand.

  A combination lock held the door tight.

  “What the fuck?” Peter whispered.

  Suddenly, the lock twitched in place, clinking against the latch.

  He grabbed the lock. It was cold to the touch. He spun the dial back and forth and gave it a yank. It held.

  Breathing heavily, Peter walked back to the pile of rebar, grabbed one of the rusted rods, slipped it through the lock’s metal U and forced it down hard.

  The door swung open. The boy grit his teeth, catching the edge of his tongue in the process. His mouth filled with the taste of copper.

  He swallowed the bloody saliva quickly, sensing that whatever was coming in could smell it. Might want it.

  Coming in.

  The boy balled his fists and prepared for the worst.

  Instead, he watched as the door opened fully, revealing nothing but the basement beyond. Still, his adrenaline was flowing, and it gave him a frantic, temporary bravery.

  “Come on in, then!” he shouted. “Come in, come in, come in, if you want to. Shut up and…come…in!”

  A whiff of smoke tickled his nose—the smell of cheap firecrackers, like sparklers. Like the black snakes kids lit on the playground, their bodies growing and spitting ash and smoke.

  Like sulfur.

  I will. I am.

  All of the air seemed to leave the room at once like the sudden exhale before a tornado. The lamp dimmed, and the boy’s skin turned electric. The walls began to vibrate, driving its tattoo deep into his gut.

  The room turned grainy, clouded. The boy’s eyes hurt. Red swirls swam at the periphery of his vision as if he were about to cry blood. He squinted, willing himself away. Anywhere, just…away.

  Something blew past his head with a rush of air and a clatter of claws.

  The boy slowly opened his eyes. And what he saw in the sparse light made his stomach twist.

  A shadow swirled above his head. It circled him, swimming in the air, leaving inky tendrils behind. It moved like liquid fire, cold and black, nails clicking against the walls as it circled lower and lower. As it did so, the boy made out two, dull grey eyes. Flatworm eyes.

  “What are you?” the boy whispered, feeling the hair on his scalp prickle.

  The darkness chittered in reply.

  I am Whisper. I am Mr. Tell.

  The boy’s blood howled in his veins. He turned, following the molten movement of the thing.

  “What do you tell?”

  The thing cackled a crackling fire chuckle as it whished past. Closer this time.

  Secrets. S-s-s-s-secrets.

  The shadow brushed against him, numbing him to the bone. The boy instinctively pushed the thing away—its icy nothingness flowed through his fingers like sleet.

  “What secrets?”

  Its eyes brightened, and it circled faster, leaving black stains in the air. The room thrummed and darkened in its wake.

  Mr. Tell! Mr. Tell! Mr. Tell! Mr. Tell!

  “What do you tell?” he cried. “What do you tell?”

  The thing stopped short and rose up in front of him like a king cobra. Its dead eyes bore into his.

  Who’s a good boy?

  Not the thing’s voice, but another. A warm voice. A woman’s voice.

  “Mama?”

  Mr. Tell opened his horrid, black mouth and struck.

  “Peter!”

  “Christ!” Peter cried. He dropped the rebar, and it hit the floor with a jarring clang.

  He turned to find Hannah standing in the doorway to the small room, her head tilted in puzzlement. “Nervous much?”

  “I…”

  “I’ve been calling you for five minutes. Don’t tell me you didn’t hear me.”

  “I didn’t.”

  Hannah gave the rebar a nudge with her foot. “Is that your weapon? Don’t tell me there are mice down here. What did you do with it? Did you bash one? No! Don’t tell me.” Hannah could deal with a lot—had dealt with a lot—but anything with whiskers and a long tail sent her over the edge.

  Peter was mystified. What was going on? What had happened to him the past few minutes?

  “You didn’t hear me?”

  “I swear,” Peter said.

  Hannah nodded her head and circled the room. “Well, you know what that means, don’t you?”

  “I really don’t.”

  Hannah put her arms around his neck. She felt warm against him. “This is where your studio’s going to b
e.”

  “My…?”

  “Are you okay? Earth to Peter.”

  “Sorry, I guess I went away there for a bit.”

  She hugged him closer. “That’s all right. It’s an odd day. First your dad, then this place. I’m just saying that if you couldn’t hear me shouting my head off—and believe me, I was—then how great would it be to finally have a little nook where you can record without having to worry about your noisy wife.”

  Peter stepped away from her and took in the room. It had awful mint green walls and smelled like dirt. Faded crayon drawings were strewn about the floor—he was standing on one.

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’ll help you paint it. Make it nice. We can take that plaid couch from your folks’ place—you know, the hide-a-bed in the guest room—and put it along that wall. Maybe a little fridge for your iced teas? Hmm?”

  Peter lifted his foot and looked down at the drawing. It was nothing but a white sheet of paper covered in a frantic scribble of black crayon. More clutter for the trash.

  “Maybe.”

  “Down here, Peter, you wouldn’t hear a peep.”

  The scream from upstairs contradicted her.

  * * *

  They found Lillian Dann in the living room.

  “Oh, my God!” the realtor was shouting. “Oh, my!”

  She stood cowering at the doorway, pointing toward the gaping maw of the brick fireplace. Soot and charcoaled bits littered the floor. And in the middle of the room flapped a black, screaming thing.

  “Jesus,” said Hannah. “Is that a bird?”

  “It’s a crow. It’s a damn crow,” cried Lillian. “I do not do birds, I swear to God.”

  Peter took a step toward the crow. It spotted him instantly and screeched a warning. It flapped its wings wildly, threatening to take to the air. He fell back, and the bird toppled to the floor.

  “Where’d it come from?” Hannah asked.

  “Down the chimney,” Lillian said, looking for all the world as if she would bolt. “Filthy thing! I can’t look, I can’t look.”

  Hannah squatted down to get a better look at the bird, which was now hopping about, scattering ash in cryptic patterns on the floor. “What’s wrong with it?”

  “It’s got a broken wing,” Peter said.

  It did at that. The crow’s left wing was flopping at the joint, twisting back and forth. It reminded Peter of the way Hannah had taught him how to tuck back the wings of a turkey before roasting.

  “Open the window,” Lillian shouted at Peter. It was strange seeing this very put-together woman so unraveled.

  “It can’t fly out.”

  “Let’s go. We can leave the doors open. Let’s go!” The woman was near panic.

  Hannah looked up at Peter. “We can’t leave it, Peter.”

  She was right, of course. As always. But doing the right thing was going to be difficult. And messy.

  He turned to Lillian Dann. “You go wait out front. I’ll come find you when I’m done.”

  “Thank you, thank you,” the realtor sputtered. She was gone in a shot.

  Peter looked back to the crow. It stared, no…glared at him, daring him to move an inch closer.

  “So, Mr. Larson, how are we going to do this?” Hannah had adopted her matter of fact tone, the one she used for all unpleasant tasks.

  Peter took a quick inventory of the room and settled on the Mexican blanket balled up in the corner—wouldn’t Lillian Dann have a field day with that. He stepped around the bird, which staggered forward, keeping its focus squarely on him.

  He snagged the blanket and gave it a shake. Dust billowed. He grabbed two corners and held it out in front of him like a magician about to perform his next trick.

  Watch me make this crow disappear.

  “Back away,” he said. Hannah rose slowly, but there had been no need. The bird’s black eyes had locked on Peter’s.

  “Careful, Peter.”

  “Do me a favor. When I say now, I want to you to distract him.”

  “How do you want me to do that?”

  “Flap your arms, whistle Dixie; I don’t care. Just do it, okay, baby?”

  “You got it.”

  The crow hissed.

  Jesus Christ. They can hiss?

  Peter took a step forward. “Okay, hush now. Hush.”

  The bird didn’t hush. It spat and waved its distorted wing at him like a curse.

  He took another step. He was almost within tossing distance of the bird.

  “All right. One…two…”

  “Are you counting or are you saying now?”

  “Both, Hannah. One…two…”

  The crow let loose a defiant crap.

  “Three. Now!”

  Hannah took a loud step toward the bird, waving her arms and singing at the top of her lungs. “You’re a grand old flag! You’re a high-flying flag! And forever in peace may you wave!”

  The bird rose up, squawking and spitting. Turning its attention toward Hannah, it began leapfrogging her way.

  Hannah retreated. “Peter!”

  Peter made his move. He threw the blanket over the top of the crow, but it landed short. The bird wriggled free and turned back to face him.

  “Shit!”

  Peter dove for the blanket and raised it up like a catcher’s mitt as the bird charged. He felt it strike, felt it squirm beneath his hands. He quickly swaddled the screaming thing, leaving no trace of it uncovered save for its angry, clacking beak.

  He looked at Hannah. She was staring at him with wide-eyed wonder. “You got it.”

  “Damn straight.”

  “Now what?”

  “Now you go keep Lillian company.”

  He rose, carefully holding the writhing bundle close, but not too close. The bird was anxious to take a bite out of anything it could.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Please?” he begged. Hannah flashed him a sad smile and left the room.

  The bird wriggled, and one of its clawed feet dug through the blanket and into his arm. Peter responded by shaking the bundle, dislodging the talons.

  Out back. Take it out back.

  Peter strode down the hallway toward the back door. When he reached it, he kicked it open. Its upper hinge broke loose—just another item to add to the fix-it list for this damn place.

  The smell of harvest was thick in the air. The workers had taken a break for lunch, but the scent of freshly-picked soybeans still wafted in the late September air. It was sweet and powdery.

  Near the edge of the pond sat a small, pile of stones. Bigger than skipping stones, they would do the trick. The crow seemed to sense his motives and resumed its pecking and clawing.

  Get this done quick.

  Peter kneeled. The ground was saturated with water, and he realized that the pond didn’t have any firm edge, any clear line of delineation between land and water.

  He clutched the bundle tight with his left hand while his right searched out a stone. He caught a glimpse of the ragged marks on his right forearm, and his thoughts returned to the basement. To the scratched door.

  Skahhh!

  The bird’s anger was turning venomous—he could feel its strength rising beneath his grip.

  His hand found the perfect stone, and he wasted no time. He raised it high over his head and brought it down hard.

  The bird let out a Kah! But its squirming only increased. The problem was instantly clear—the ground was too soggy. With every blow, he’d only pound the crow’s head deeper and deeper into the pliant soil.

  Peter peered out over the pond. It was a beautiful day, it really was. Too beautiful to fill a Mexican blanket with rocks, tie it tight and toss it—crow, stones and all—into the water.

  And yet, that’s exactly what he
did.

  * * *

  Lillian Dann and Hannah were waiting for him out front near the cars.

  “How’d you make out?” Hannah asked.

  “Fine,” he said, hiding his trembling hands.

  “I am so sorry, Peter,” Lillian said. “I could never stomach a bird. Ask anyone. Still, that was very unprofessional of me, and I apologize, I apologize, I apologize.”

  Peter smiled. The woman seemed truly upset. “It’s all right.”

  “I’m going to go,” Lillian said as she hopped into her Mini. “Your wife gave me all your contact info—emails and whatnot. I’m going have a chitchat with the cleaning crew I use and see if we can’t knock twenty percent off a good sweep of this place for you. Same with your folks’ house. Get you settled on both fronts. I’ll be in touch real, real soon, but right now, I’ve got to go.”

  And with that, the realtor steered her Mini down the drive, kicking up gravel as she went.

  “Now that’s a woman who doesn’t like birds,” Hannah said.

  Peter didn’t reply. His thoughts were on the bundle at the bottom of the lake.

  “Was it bad?” Hannah asked.

  “Yeah, it was.”

  She kissed him on the cheek. “It’s one-two-three-go, by the way. Not one-two-three-now.”

  “Where the hell did you pull You’re a Grand Old Flag from?”

  Hannah smiled. “It worked, didn’t it?”

  Peter sighed and rolled his shoulders. He looked out over the brown front lawn and at the brown vista beyond.

  “C’mon,” his wife said, pulling him toward the car. “I think you need a little day drinkin’.”

  As they pulled away from the house, Peter could have sworn he heard it laughing.

  Peter ushered Hannah through the door of the Blind Rock Tavern, grateful for the cool comfort of the place.

  “Blind Rock?” Hannah mused. “What’s the story there?”

  “Haven’t a clue,” Peter answered. He had spotted the place after their meeting with Moots and had tucked it into his mental Rolodex for later. “We’ll have to ask.”

  The Blind Rock consisted of a single room that extended back into darkness almost half a block. A row of video poker machines lined the wall next to the restrooms, giving off the occasional electronic bleep.