by Dan Padavona
“I don't know. But I promise you that we'll do it together.”
“If you weren’t here with me, I think I’d lose my mind.”
“I promised you last night that I would stay with you, and I meant it. Besides,” he said, a wry smile curling at his lips. “Who's going to teach you to cook?”
She punched him in the shoulder. He felt her chest shake through a mix of laughter and tears.
“Don't make fun of my dinner.”
“I'm not.”
He stroked her hair and kissed her forehead.
“It means more to me than you can ever know that you cooked for me,” he said. “Team?”
She smiled up at him through tears.
“Team.”
They ate together and made the type of small talk people make when a heavier truth rumbles distant, like thunder on a sunny day. Had Tom been going through this alone, he thought he would have been unreachable by now, hidden within an unbreakable shell. But she was here, and she experienced the tragedy with him. Her empathy was his only lifeline, and he was all she had left.
But that didn't prevent the ghastly memories from breaking through the barricades he had constructed, like water through a dam with too many leaks.
“I can't go to the police,” he said. “I don't know how to explain what happened last night. Christ, what if they think I murdered them?”
She usually had an answer. This time there was none.
“So we don't go to the police,” she said. “We stay here, where we know it's safe.”
He nodded in agreement.
“Jen, I can never go back there.”
“Then don't.”
“Everything I own is in there. School, all of my college applications, so much stuff.”
“Give it some time. Somebody's going to come looking for your parents sooner or later. The police will deal with it. There's no reason for you to put yourself through seeing it again.”
“You're right.”
“And when it's over, go back and take what you need. I'll go with you.”
“Thank you.”
“We’re a team, right?”
“Right.”
Eight
The final sparks of daylight's last stand stroked the top of the hill forest in swatches of scarlet. The light flooded the meadow in oranges and reds, and the wind set the tall grass in motion like rolling waves in a golden sea. The warm hues poured down the hillside in a sanguine waterfall and cast themselves against the west-facing buildings of downtown. It was the sort of passionate late day display by nature that usually brought warmth and hope to the town’s residents. But this time there seemed to be almost no one to enjoy it.
Greg Madsen's wristwatch read 5:00 p.m. He had finished working with a crew charged to clear the west end of Jensen Road.
The stories he had heard at the Moran farm did not register as any more believable now than they had then, but something ate at him. Why weren't there more people outside fixing their homes, downtown gathering supplies, or in their yards finding comfort in the company of others? Numerous homes off Jensen had broken windows, missing shingles, and downed trees and branches. And none of it was being tended to.
As he radioed his position to Art Stults and gave him an update on the state of Jensen Road near the Randolph juncture, he drove toward a side street called Brown Avenue, which branched north off Jensen and ended at a dead end of trees and marshland a half mile away.
Old oaks and ash mixed with towering maples along Brown. The thick foliage conspired with the west-side roofs to stifle the low sun angle, blanketing the neighborhood in a veil of darkness.
The scene unsettled him.
He felt as though he were walking down the corridor of a decrepit house, in search of a murderer who might be concealed in any of the adjoining rooms—someone waiting to burst through the door with a sadistic grin.
The yards should have been full of children playing and riding their bikes. If their parents had deemed it too dangerous to play outside because of the scattered damage, why weren't they cleaning it up? Where was everybody?
He picked a weathered Victorian cloaked by oak and ash. Poplars grew to either side of the door. When he pressed the doorbell at the top of the stairs, he heard it ring first in the front foyer and then echo from a second monitor somewhere deep in the house. He waited a minute, then he pounded on the wooden door. No answer came.
He glanced down the Victorian's driveway. The garage was closed, but he could see two cars parked inside through dusty windows.
The next house was a gray bungalow with a deep front porch. The number nine on the house had come off its top latch and hung upside down as a six. He turned the number to its original position and latched it securely and rang the doorbell, but again no answer came. He peeked around the corner of the house and saw a rusted Chevy pickup in the driveway.
Then he heard a distinct thump from inside the house.
From the basement?
The sound had weight to it, as though something large had toppled over below the first floor.
“Hello? Can anyone hear me?”
Greg listened for signs of distress. The wind whistled an eerie song through the trees.
“Storberry Police Department. Is everyone okay inside?”
Silence.
His curiosity piqued, he walked down the porch steps into the driveway and shined a light on the basement window. The window was intact, but its translucency was blotted out by pieces of cardboard. Another window toward the back of the house was similarly obscured.
“Hello? Officer Madsen, Storyberry Police.”
He thought he heard a skittering sound behind the concealed window, like vermin, but too heavy to be a rat.
“Is anyone home?”
When no answer came again, he turned back to the sidewalk and continued down Brown. There were no vehicles at eleven or thirteen. Fifteen was another Victorian, yellow paint weathered and chipping away. Two compact cars were parked in the driveway, and the lights were off inside the house.
The long front porch was covered with ivy. A lone rocking chair rocked ghostly on the wooden planks, set in motion by the wind. Boards creaked under his feet like a witch's cackle.
When he rang the doorbell, he was surprised to feel the hair standing on the back of his neck. Something was off. It was the same cold terror he had felt when he had first heard the wind scream out of the southwestern hills.
His wristwatch read 5:12 p.m., and he wasn't finding any answers as to what gnawed at him on Brown Avenue. He was officially off-duty as of 6:00 p.m., at which time he planned to begin his drive to the Moran farm.
Greg had turned to descend the steps when a scream came from inside the house. This time he was certain it had come from the basement.
“Storberry Police. Are you in danger?”
He bent his neck around the side of the house, looking for a window into the basement. Like the previous house, the windows were obscured from the inside by what appeared to be an old quilt. He returned to the door and banged against it with his fist. As the flimsy door rattled within the jamb, the wind increased, moaning over the tree tops like the groan of old bones.
A second scream followed.
It was animal-like, something between a woman's voice and a feral cat.
He radioed the department that there was a woman in distress inside the house and requested backup. Static answered. He could wait no longer. He yelled “Police!” and kicked the door open.
As he entered the Victorian with his gun drawn and announced his presence, diffused light pooled dimly through the entrance. Heavy curtains were drawn across the first-floor window.
The resultant darkness was palpable, converging against the dim light as though the black meant to swallow it.
The staircase to the second floor, whose white paint had long since begun to chip off, rose in front of him. The upstairs was cloaked in darkness as well. He could see a shade drawn against an east-facing window at the top of the steps. The st
airway appeared to turn off to the left into a pool of black ink.
When Greg flicked on his flashlight to chase back the shadows, its glow penetrated the unnatural gloom into the kitchen, like a night train sweeping its beam across abandoned tracks. He called out again but received no reply.
A gas stove at the end of the hall grew closer as he approached. He might have stood upon a moving platform, being dragged forward against his will, for the scene seemed to engulf him.
He swept around the corner and pointed his gun into the darkness, his disquiet growing at the barricades constructed to stop the light. The window over the sink was sloppily covered by wood planks nailed into the frame. Dim light through the slats rendered the kitchen counter and sink in silhouette.
Fear prickled up his spine, as he was sure someone stood behind him. He swung the gun around to find only darkness.
And then there was a door. He aimed the flashlight at eye level and found a calendar marked with handwritten notes hanging by a thumbnail. Below the calendar was the doorknob to the basement.
“Storberry Police Department. Can anyone hear me?”
He fumbled on the kitchen wall for a light switch, expecting something to reach out of the gloom and snatch him by the hand. His hand brushed against the light switch; but when he flicked it, there was no response. He shined the flashlight at the lamp hanging over the kitchen to see the bulb had been removed.
Then the flashlight flickered and died in his hands. He jiggled it and smacked it against his palm, but the light did not respond.
As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he began to ascertain the shape of the door. He touched the doorknob and jerked his hand back in shock. The brass knob was frigid, as if a frozen landscape existed on the other side, wind whipping blankets of icy snow against the frame. It was uncomfortable in his hand, as he turned the knob and gently pressed his body against the door. The mechanism clicked.
When the door pushed open, the air felt as though it had dropped 30 degrees. Something else was hidden in the dark—an unpleasant odor from below, smelling of vermin and decay.
Once more he called out to the occupant. He felt certain the screaming woman had been in danger, possibly held against her will.
After the first two steps, the wooden stairs faded away into ink. Whoever had covered the windows had gone to great lengths to ensure that no light entered the basement.
The stairs had a dangerous look of disrepair—brittle, and somehow out of balance. The top stair sagged in the middle, warped by age and lack of upkeep. He put one foot forward and tested the step with his weight. It felt sturdy enough to hold him, but it would only take one faulty step to send him crashing through the staircase into the unknown. Without use of the flashlight, he had no idea how far the drop was. But his intuition told him the staircase was steep.
He moved down a second stair, and the board groaned under his weight. He made certain to keep one foot on each step, not tempting fate by putting his full weight on a step.
The third and fourth steps were vague silhouettes. Beyond that, a black hole, darker than the bottom of the murkiest river. He thought of reversing course and ripping the planks off the kitchen window so that ambient light could spill down the basement stairs. But he had no tools with which to pry the nails away.
Why did the flashlight have to stop working now?
“Storberry Police Department.”
His voice traveled through the unseen catacombs and withered against the noise-reducing blankets covering the windows.
Click. Slooosh.
The noise came from his left. He turned with the gun pointed at the impenetrable dark and saw a distant blue flame at ground level.
The water heater.
He strained his eyes in hope that the flame would provide just enough light for silhouettes. Its azure glow reflected off the concrete floor and perished at a perimeter one foot from the heater. He had to look away from the flame, which had implanted a red doppelganger of itself on the backs of his eyelids. He rested on the steps while the image faded from his vision, and still he could not hear the woman.
He descended two more steps. Then two more. The eighth step screeched under his weight like a wounded animal. The step sagged so precipitously that he was sure it would snap at any second.
The ninth and tenth steps felt sturdier, and they did not betray him. He grasped the flashlight and flicked the switch again. All he needed was a few seconds of juice to reveal his surroundings and its hidden dangers. The light did not respond. He tapped the flashlight against his leg, and for a brief moment there was a burst of illumination, as though lightning had flashed within the basement.
The light was gone as fast as it had arrived, but it was enough for Greg to have seen four steps remaining to a concrete floor. A wood-paneled wall stood beyond the steps. The basement floor wrapped around to his left toward unexplored territory—a room with a washer, dryer, and the water heater. He had seen the room out of the corner of his eye.
Is someone hiding behind the appliances?
He tapped the flashlight two more times without success, then turned the light off on the slim hope that the batteries would recharge for one last try. As he traversed the final steps to the concrete floor, the freakish cold ate at him, soaking through to his bones. He started to shiver and knew it would affect his ability to hold a gun steady.
He recalled a cold January day from a decade ago. Police academy training—target practice.
The bitter winter wind had been blowing straight through him, ice forming on his bones. His arms began to shake. Then, as the tremor fed upon itself, his entire body began to tremble. Two shots fired wide of the target.
He could hear Sargent Napol behind him.
“Forget the Cold. Mind over Matter.”
A bull of a man, Napol's voice was baritone and resonant, like the rumble of a passing train. Greg focused on his breathing. After several deep breaths, the cold lost its edge. He still felt it bite at his extremities, but his body seemed to have added a second layer of clothing.
The tremors stopped.
The next shot ripped through the bullseye. Napol slapped him on the shoulder.
“It's all in the mind. Remember that.”
Back in the basement, he breathed deeply, left foot on the concrete, right on the bottom stair, ready to pivot and fire at the first hint of danger. He faced the darkness, at once alert and serene. The cold receded from his bones. His grip on the gun stabilized.
“Storberry Police. Is anyone down here?”
Several moments of absolute silence followed. He heard the blood beating in his head, the purr of the water heater, his slow, controlled breathing, and then—
“Help me.”
He froze at the sound of the voice. It came from directly ahead, at the outer perimeter of the basement. Something about the voice's rasp—sickly, yet emboldened—shook him to his core.
“Ma'am. Are you injured?”
“Help...”
The blackness was so absolute that he could not see his gun held in front of him. He kicked a cardboard box in his path, hearing the clanging of glasses and dishes. He stumbled and caught himself before he fell.
“Storberry Police, Ma'am. Is there anyone down here with you?”
“With you...”
His heart seized at the reply.
The woman was right in front of him. He could not have reached her yet. She had moved to him.
“Stay where you are.”
“Stay...with you...”
The smell of her breath was rancid, like something long deceased. The odor of decay was stronger now, and he was certain that the woman was the source.
“Do not approach. Tell me the nature of your injuries, and I will come to—”
Laughter.
As he stepped backward and brushed against the box, he stumbled.
His head smacked against the concrete floor, stars tearing across his vision. Her feet shuffled forward.
Swish, Swish...
He quickly recovered and aimed the weapon against her advance.
“I order you to stay where you are.”
Swish, Swish...
Laughter.
He flicked the flashlight one last time, and the beam exploded with full power. It pulled the woman out of the shadows.
She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Skin of alabaster, strangely timeless, and he couldn’t have placed an age to her. When she smiled, a warmth engulfed him.
She beckoned him forward.
He stood transfixed by her beauty, not wondering why she had hidden herself in the dark nor why she had cried for help. His heart pounded as stepped toward her.
Something changed.
He thought he had glimpsed another face, a corpse’s face. Then the chill of the basement was in his bones again. He saw her for as she truly was.
He could not comprehend the hideous image. Skin hanging off facial bones, a walking cadaver. Eyes wide and lidless, awash in deep red.
The woman’s mouth opened to reveal a maw of jagged fangs that dripped with blood.
The light went out.
He fired the gun twice. The room illuminated with each blast, like a strobe firing. Both shots found their mark in her chest.
His aim was true, yet still she came.
He fired two more shots. The recoil traveled through his arms and shoulders. Both bursts of light showed her approaching faster.
The sunset of his resolve evaporated into a black horizon of terror. The stories from the Moran farm rushed forward like streaking ghosts, and in a moment of combined clarity and insanity, he realized that he believed every word.
His survival instinct pulled him toward the basement stairs. His shoulder bounced off an unseen wall, and a jolt of pain shot through his arm. The flashlight fell from his hand. There was no overcoming the inhuman chill of Fifteen Brown Avenue, and it was cold, so very cold.
His hands were held in front of him as he plodded toward a staircase that he couldn't see. Indistinct shadows raced past his vision, maybe a wall or an old table, then the blue glow of the pilot light to his left. His fingers touched the chilled surface of the wood paneling, and in a moment of panic he was sure that a second wall would have sprung out of the ground to his right, entrapping him with...with...
