What Goes On In The Walls At Night: Thirteen tales of disgust and delight

by Andrew Schrader

  The muddy wall crumbled and fell. His arm sank a foot deep, the mud creating a kind of vacuum that sucked on it as he tried to pull it out.

  But it was a hole. There was nothing behind the facade of mud. It was hollow.

  A snap, from up above. Bob whipped his head and looked up. A faint outline of . . . something . . . up there . . . moonlight, perhaps, but diffused. An ethereal gray-yellow light permeated the trees above him like a mist, only . . . the light was bobbing up and down . . . and getting closer.

  The red and white spots on his pupils were slowly diminishing. There was instead now a large, soft spot in his vision. Bob squinted up, as the light grew brighter, brighter still. There was a shape. The dark outline of a body approached.

  It was the thing. The thing beyond the fire.

  An inhuman, wolfen yell exploded from the top of the pit. The sound reverberated, loud as a train whistle; Bob clamped his palms over his ears.

  Bob’s brain fled his body, shut down in any conscious, thoughtful way. Only the visceral and instinctual frenzy of flight was there, and it overtook him. He spun to the wall, rammed one arm through the hole he’d made, and pulled out the mud, throwing it to the ground. He yelled with each thrust, until there was a large hole three feet across and—

  He dove through the hole head first. There was no more mud behind the wall—it was indeed hollow. He fell to the floor and began crawling, directionless, just escaping, surviving.

  The floor of the tunnel was packed hard, as if tamped down by someone or something. And it was cool in there, under the earth. It smelled similar to a rock cave, and was dark like one, but—

  Up ahead. Up there. Something. Like a light. The tunnels seemed brighter.

  He crawled on, unsure of how wide or long the tunnel was, just moving, thundering along, yelling with each elbow and leg he slammed on the ground, whipping his head around behind him, moving forward again, until—

  Without thinking, he stood up and ran. The tunnel was very tall, as if made for a body of human height—something bipedal. He took off, toward the light, arms outstretched, toward the light, screaming, toward—

  The light grew brighter. His vision was splotchy, but it was definitely lighter up ahead.

  On and on he ran, his boots full of water and mud. He stumbled, and only then realized his legs weren’t quite working properly. His poor, twisted, broken ankle simply refused to go on. Now he felt the pain. He limped along as best he could, using his right leg, dragging his left like it was weighted with bricks.

  He almost ran into the wall at the end of the tunnel. There, to his right, he saw. The light. The lights. There were, in fact, three separate round circles in the wall next to him. All in a row. Like he was at a cross-section of a sewer.

  But not a sewer for waste. A sewer for getting around . . . Then, who’s getting around in these tunnels?

  He forced the questions out of his mind, turned back to see if the thing beyond the fire was following him, and tried to focus on which tunnel to use.

  All three seemed to point in the same direction, but each had varying degrees of light poking through—maybe being of different lengths. Without hesitating, Bob launched himself through the brightest one—the middle one—which started about two feet off the earthen floor.

  He crawled on his elbows—this hole was too small to stand in. His foot throbbed as he banged it on the tunnel floor; his bones ground and slammed together, forcing his right leg to do most of the work. He gritted his teeth in pain and kept moving as best he could. There was light, goddamnit, and where there was light, there was—

  Something.

  Ignoring the burning and wheezing in his throat, he pressed on, elbow after elbow, up and down, racing to the end of the tunnel. The light grew brighter, and when he reached the end, he let his upper half hang out over the edge of the tunnel and gasped for breath and pushed himself over the edge and just laid there and looked.

  This pinwheel-like room was lit by a large fire, right in the middle. Above it, there was a hole in the ceiling, and it looked out into the dark and the trees, though it was covered over slightly by branches and dead wood. The whole room was exposed to the rain, and even though the water fell it did not extinguish the large fire. Instead, the water merely crackled as it fell on the embers.

  Bob rose, hopping on one leg, examining his surroundings. From what he could tell, several separate tunnels fanned out across all sides of the room. There were perhaps a dozen, all with their own ethereal light emanating from somewhere beyond. He looked behind him, back down the tunnel he’d crawled through, and listened for the sound of any follower. Satisfied he was safe, he turned back to survey the room.

  Which way was up and out? He couldn’t tell. Limping around the room, he tried to peer down each tunnel, but it was dark, too dark to tell how far back they went or where they led.

  His eyes felt dry as deserts; they felt on fire, like a hundred tiny red ants were crawling and digging through his eye sockets. And his poor leg . . . He thought about removing his boot to survey the damage, maybe make a splint of some kind, but instantly rejected the idea. He might have to move quickly, and wouldn’t have time to lace up again.

  Someone—or something—had to have made this fire, and he or she—or it—would be back. Still, he let himself enjoy for just a moment the heat and dancing images of the flame. The siren of the fire called to him, beckoned for him to stay and lie down next to it. It would be so nice, so nice to sleep, so nice to—

  In sudden terror of the heat, of comfort, Bob wrenched himself up and began crawling again. He chose the tunnel that he believed headed north, back to his truck, toward home.

  Ten minutes later, he found the tunnel twisting and turning, first slanting left, then right, then left again, then straight for a while. He was still heading generally north (he believed) but the tunnel was now so dark he’d bump into the wall directly in front of him, turn, follow the route some more, until he reached another dead end and had to turn again.

  Then he found himself sliding.

  One moment he was crawling along, the next he was falling forward, trying first to press his hands against the sides of the tunnel to slow himself down, so he held them impotently in front of his face as he slid down, down, down.

  He shot out of the slide like a child at a playground, the impact of the dirt on his body sucking the air from him again. He rolled over, once, then stood, ready to defend himself.

  Another fire burned in here, only it emanated from a torch that hung on the wall ahead and to his left. It flung yellow light across a giant mound of dirt in the middle of the room, about ten feet wide and long and five or so feet tall.

  Bob instantly had the sense this time he was not along. “Hello—” he called out, the dirt walls absorbing the sound of his voice.

  A hand stretched out from behind the dirt mound. The firelight shimmered on the skin, creating psychedelic patterns. The gnarled hand gripped the side of the dirt mound, pulling the body attached to it around with it.

  The body groaned, straining to get itself to the other side. Its other hand slammed into the dirt mound, fingers caked in mud, digging deep, trying to get leverage, and with one final groan pulled the rest of the body around.

  The eyes of his friend Harry softened, glowed with the joy of recognition. “Bob!” Then Harry fell to the earthen floor, too weak to hold himself up any longer.

  Bob rushed to his friend, cradled his head, wept in happiness. Seeing Harry was like the ultimate oasis in a desert, a friend in enemy territory. They cried together, and it wasn’t until his eyes were good and moist, finally, that Bob looked up, past the mound of dirt he and Harry were leaning on, and saw the dead bodies mounted on the wall or stuck to posts in the floor.

  The human bodies were stripped of skin. Skulls, spines, and full skeletons in different sizes and shapes had been mounted in various poses. Some simply stood like medical cadavers in a science class, while others—the small children—sat with their legs cross
ed. Some even had their head perched on a fist, like they were thinking. Dozens and dozens of them lined the walls.

  “Hunted,” Harry whispered, wide-eyed. He flicked his head up to the wall. “Trophies.”

  “Who’s hunting them?”

  Harry licked his cracked lips. “Wolves, I think. Or men. Beasts. Something in between. They’re nothing I’ve ever seen, nothing I could imagine . . .” He trailed off, lost in his thoughts, still moving his lips but with nothing coming out.

  After several moments Bob spoke. “Have you been here this whole time?”

  Harry blinked. “I think so. There were three others with me. Every few nights they took one out. And they haven’t come back. They’re using them, hunting them. I think they’ve been waiting to let me heal . . .” He motioned to his leg, which was black with old blood and raked through as if by claws. “Before they hunt me . . . But I won’t make it far.” Harry looked up, eyes wet and heavy. “I can’t outrun ‘em, can’t outfight ‘em—”

  A door, at first unseen in the darkness, creaked and opened on their right. The two men whipped around, pale blue light spilling in from somewhere outside the door, somewhere . . . above.

  They held their breath and waited for whoever, whatever was up there to come down. But nothing came. Something in the silence, something in the waiting, something in the knowing he’d had since he was a boy told him to get up; he was supposed to go out that door, to face whatever was waiting for him. Besides, if he was going to be hunted, he knew he’d be better off fighting outside than down here in this dungeon.

  He wrapped one of Harry’s arms around the back of his neck and stood them both up. The two of them hobbled out the door and looked up. Ahead of them was a rough staircase carved in the mud; pale moonlight shone down the forty crudely carved steps that lay in front of them, that reached up to the forest floor.

  They tasted fresh air as they reached the top. Harry closed his eyes and smiled, feeling the breeze and smelling the fresh forest rain. The rain pitter-pattered on his face, and for a moment Harry was a free man.

  Bob let his friend down gently against the side of a large boulder, so Harry could lean against it and perch with one leg for a time. He didn’t look directly at the beasts in the trees. He saw them but wasn’t ready for the game to start just yet. He patted Harry on the shoulder, reached behind his back, and unsheathed his buck knife.

  In one quick motion he slit his friend’s throat. Harry made not a sound, just merely smiled and silently thanked his friend for the early death—then sank to the floor and went with grace.

  The growls came, displeased, from the edge of the trees ahead of them; they were standing, dozens of them, nestled near trees and behind shrugs. They didn’t like their animals dying before the hunt.

  Bob calmly wiped his blade, sheathed his knife for a moment, then bent down to tighten his boots. He grimaced only a little as he pulled them tight, bracing his bad ankle for the pounding he was about to give it. Then he stood, straightened his shirt, unsheathed his knife, and waited.

  The tall wolf bodies parted to either side, giving him thirty or so feet to pass. Bob knew they wanted him to run in that direction. He would oblige them.

  A moment later Bob took off, hobbling as best he could, numb to the pain, heading north, for the truck. The wolves told each other later the big guy had gone the way wild things die: sputtering and clawing and gnashing his teeth; mad-faced and wretched—his screams forever drowned by the sounds of the howlin’ rain.

  Who Goes There

  A Ghost Story

  Chapter One

  If you have found this letter, Dear Reader, then my shotgun and senses have failed me, and I am dead. No doubt you have already removed the body of my brother, Charles, who lies here in the book room. But have you found my body on the estate? Maybe I made it to the front door or even the courtyard. Or is it gone entirely? I confess, it’s possible I’m still animated, strolling across some distant countryside. Perhaps, I, ecstatic at having escaped this house, have forgotten to return for this manuscript.

  Though I doubt it.

  It’s possible no one has entered this room for a very long time. Do you smell the musty books, the damp blankets of dust strewn across the furniture? Have the weeds overthrown the front of the home? Have the salty sea and wind stripped the paint and lacquer from its frame? If so, then it’s been a very long time, indeed. How much time has passed since my death? Seasons or years? My . . . instinct, let’s say, tells me I’ve been locked in here for no more than an hour, but all I see is the dust and mildew of decades on all my father’s things. Thick layers of filth blanket the table, and tree dandruff and seawater stick to the windows, gumming over my view to the outside. The whole place is conspiring to keep me here, to lock me in and make sure I never get out. That’s how they work. They box you in. It happened to my brother. It happened to me.

  Whether you’ve come searching for me or have stumbled upon me randomly, I suggest you pick up this manuscript and leave this house. Do not wait to finish reading.

  After you’re gone, and the sight of my ghastly childhood home has vanished from your rearview mirror, sit down and read this in its entirety. Had I known just weeks ago what I know now, much tragedy could have been avoided. My hope is that I pass on to you an important piece of the puzzle, and should you find yourself in the same predicament, maybe you can save yourself.

  As for me, I’ll have to keep my head down and write. It helps me keep my focus off them. Maybe writing this will even help prepare me for what I have to do next. You can read. I’ll write. Let’s keep it simple.

  If what you read seems too fantastic, or if I seem crazy or incoherent at times, remember that every man wears his own rose-colored glasses, so that what appears pink and fuzzy to one is white and focused to another. If your mind closes on you, let me remind you that there is more to this world than meets the eye, and although we believe that in this year, 1934, we have conquered both nature and the cosmos, we still cannot explain the nature of energy—that most basic ingredient of the universe.

  One more thing: If you find yourself peeking over your shoulder during the next full moon, at a cloaked figure in your periphery, or at a horrendous being looming in the empty spaces between the dark and the light just outside your bedroom door, don’t look at it. Don’t ever look.

  You must never stare.

  You must never stare at who goes there.

  Chapter Two

  Where to start, except with my brother and me? We’re twins. I came out first, eyes open, ready for life. Charles, I was told, kicked and screamed, covered in bruises. And that’s how he stayed.

  I was always a man of business, and also a man of action, who can’t stand to let problems sit for very long. I’m growing more intolerant of them as I age; as my body weakens so does my patience. I prefer to face those things most people find distasteful; I feel and sleep better knowing hardships have been overcome.

  Not so, with my brother. No, Charles was never the one to take the initiative; he was always in one scrape or another, always insanely drunk and evading responsibility.

  Most fellas grow out of that behavior, but he never did. He just couldn’t put the bottle down. Every few months he would swear off for good, begin to gain a foothold in the business of living, then in an extraordinary display of destruction, tear it all down to the roots. Now I know the truth about him, and if I’d only . . . well, no point in thinking like that. There’s nothing I could have done—

  Shown more compassion, maybe, more understanding, more tolerance, more patience when he got drunk on Father’s corn alcohol and burned down the barn that summer when we were kids and used to chew hay together and giggle about the Paulson girls—

  Stop that!

  Give me a moment . . . Why do my thoughts interrupt like that? Do yours just pipe up for no good reason, when you don’t ask them to?

  Anyway, Charles left for good a couple years ago, after our father died and willed us the family busin
esses. In true form, he stayed only long enough to sign some of the more important documents, then cashed in his bonds, corporate stocks, and a few treasuries and eloped with his beautiful bride, Maggie. Poor soul, Maggie. Why a woman would stay with such a drunk like him was beyond me. Freckles, red hair, and shocking blue eyes. A laugh for any situation. But no more.

  If you go down to the cellar on the other side of the courtyard, you’ll see. Open the outer door, then step inside and cut the chains I’ve thrown around the lock and the handle of the inner door to keep her in. But bring a gun . . . Poor Maggie. Those beautiful baby-blues are gone, now only white orbs that glow in the dark like planets knocked from orbit. She’s no longer human, that I can tell you. What is she now? Who knows. One of them, whatever they are. But you’ll see. You’ll see.

  Sorry. I’ll try not to ramble anymore. My mind isn’t what it once was . . .

  Armed with enough money and bootlegged liquor to fend off even the most frightful bouts of consciousness, Charles and Maggie, to my knowledge, traveled around California before settling into this estate. He’d been surviving almost exclusively off bathtub gin—speakeasy potions—and whatever morsels he could stomach that day.

  Six months later, I began receiving letters—letters with sweat around the edges. Charles’s handwriting, jagged and erratic, suggested an internal battle—another round of alcoholic detox, perhaps. I arranged for him to stay here, at our old boyhood summer home, on the coast, full of quiet ocean breeze. The idea was that with less influence from outside forces Charles could dry out and soak up a bit of the sea to replace the ethanol in his veins. Maggie, his dish, would join him. Good thing, too; God only knows what jams he would have found himself in had he not been sequestered here with her on December 5 last year, at the end of Prohibition.