Six Dead Spots

by Gregor Xane

When Frank realized he'd been pedaling blind for quite some time, he opened his eyes just soon enough to avoid smashing into a cathedral-shaped mailbox.

  He took a quick glance behind him. He didn't see the dog, but there was something chasing after him, something much smaller. Frank slowed down in order to focus; a tiny black rabbit was quickly gaining on him. But then Frank realized that the rabbit was not chasing him. It was being chased. The black dog separated itself from the shadows and bounded after it.

  Frank pedaled faster. The bike began to tremor and rattled audibly beneath him. He felt the handlebars loosen.

  "Shit," Frank said and turned to see the bike's seat teeter off its pedestal and tumble behind him up the street. The rabbit dodged it with two quick, tight turns. But the dog wasn't quick enough. The seat bounced, flipped up from the asphalt, and smacked the animal across the snoot.

  Stunned, it stopped to shake off the blow, and then lunged forward with renewed appetite.

  Shit.

  Frank could barely keep his hands on the handlebars. His sweaty palms were slick against the rubber grips, and the handlebars themselves were becoming looser.

  Frank heard deep growling, closer now, and then a snapping sound between his legs. The steering column had come apart. Frank raised his arms and let the handlebars fall away.

  Somehow he managed to maintain his balance, and kept pedaling, fear heightening his agility, Frank held his arms out at his sides like a seasoned unicyclist and tried not to think about falling backwards and impaling himself on the exposed end of the seat pedestal. The frame continued to rattle beneath him. He heard screws and bolts falling from their holes, tinkling behind him in the street.

  Then the front wheel came off.

  Frank was pitched forward. Tucked into a ball, he rolled across hard grit, tearing his clothes, scraping his shoulders, and bloodying his knees. The bike fell to pieces and tumbled after him. When Frank came to a stop, belly-up and exposed, the bike's rear wheel rolled across his gut, and its bare frame smacked painfully across his shins.

  Frank didn't stop to collect himself, to think about how badly he might be hurt. He could only think of the shadow chasing him, the shadow's glowing teeth. He pushed himself up, groaning with his injuries, and stood to face his attacker. But he found that he'd managed to gain a good deal of ground as he'd pedaled recklessly onward on his disintegrating bicycle.

  Then he saw the black rabbit scurry into an island of light about a hundred yards behind him.

  The dog appeared. It leapt down on to its prey, seemingly from high above, as if it had taken to racing across the treetops in its pursuit. The beast trapped the tiny creature and somersaulted with its quarry clamped in its jaws. The dog quickly regained its footing and shook its head back and forth. A froth of spittle sparkled through the streetlights. A much darker spray soon followed, as the beast's teeth let loose the rabbit's blood.

  Frank knew this small conquest wouldn't distract the dog for long. It would soon be after him again. He had no choice now but to turn his back and run. His shoulders and knees ached as the rubber soles of his gym shoes pounded pavement. He turned a corner and sprinted three blocks before he had to pause to catch his breath. He bent over, hands on his knees, took deep controlled breaths, and looked down the street behind him. He didn't see the dog. But he knew that it couldn't be far behind. He turned back around and spotted a child's bike parked in a nearby driveway. Its yellow frame shone in the streetlights. Silver handlebar tassels blew in the gentle night breeze. Its metallic-blue banana seat dazzled.

  It's a bit small, but it will have to do.

  Frank approached the bike, grabbed the handlebars, and jerked the elongated seat beneath him. He noticed a white basket wired to the steering column, and then its strange contents: a pair of sunglasses and a half-closed straight razor. The blade was nicked and stained.

  Frank caught movement at the corner of his eye and expected to find the dog crouched next to him, but what he saw was a small white hand.

  The hand belonged to a young girl. She held something clutched between her fingers that Frank couldn't identify at first. It resembled a black pompom. But then he followed her hands as she raised it to her head, and watched her tiny fingers as they pulled a wig snugly into place.

  Frank wasn't surprised to find that below the false hair stood a girl who had no face. It wasn't as if a sheet of skin had just grown over her eyes, nose, and mouth, not like a stocking concealing the face of an armed robber. No, there simply were no features. Frank found himself staring at a perfect pink oval.

  Frank couldn't believe she was real. He couldn't move, couldn't help but watch the girl reach into the basket and remove the sunglasses. She placed them on her head where her eyes should have been. And Frank couldn't figure out at first how they managed to stay in place, since the girl had no nose, no ears to support them. Then the wind blew back her fake hair to reveal that she'd slipped the arms of her sunglasses through small hoops sewn into either side of her wig.

  Her hands returned to the basket and retrieved the straight razor. Her fingers parted the handle from the blade and raised it to her 'face.'

  Frank lunged forward to make her stop.

  But the girl stepped back and dragged the razor across the bottom half of her blank face, drawing a cartoon frown in her own blood. Then she popped her jaw, stretched it wide, and the frown became a ragged tear, then a gaping red gash.

  The girl screamed in agony.

  Frank clamped his hands over his ears and took a few steps back, the bike still rolling beneath him. The inside of the girl's mouth was no different than that of a normal child's. His stomach lurched at the innocent pink tongue, the tiny white teeth covered in blood. He gagged, taking his hands from his ears to cover his mouth, and was about to double over and empty his guts, when the screaming stopped.

  The night went starkly quiet, suddenly still. Frank managed to take in a breath of cool air, to take control of himself again.

  He looked up and found the girl pointing at his face. She screamed— "Get off my bike!"—lifted the razor over her head and threw it at him. It whizzed past Frank's head and clattered against the windshield of a car parked nearby.

  The faceless girl screamed again, raised her hands, curled her fingers into claws.

  Frank jumped back, lifted the handlebars of the bike, and accidentally gave the girl an uppercut with its spinning front wheel.

  She gave out a short gasp and fell backwards onto the pavement, landing squarely on her bottom, and started to cry.

  Her sobs followed Frank as he rode off on her bicycle. He pedaled fast, training wheels clacking. He didn't once consider stopping, though her sobs were not unlike that of any girl who has just been assaulted and had her bike stolen by a strange man.

  He wasn't concerned with the faceless girl because the black dog had caught up with him. A deep growl accompanied the sound of shedding tears. Frank heard the dog's breath expelled in heavy bursts, as paws hit the pavement, the beast's lungs and throat setting a dark chugging rhythm.

  Frank pushed the little bike as hard as he could, his knees coming up to his chest as he pumped the tiny pedals. He raced down three blocks and turned a corner before the training wheels snapped off and skittered across the asphalt. Less than a block from Steve's house, the handlebars gave way, the seat toppled off, and the front wheel sailed from within its fork and wobbled away.

  Frank was determined not to fall this time. As soon as the wheel came loose, he jumped forward and landed on his feet. His heels came down hard, sending sharp pains though his knees and up his spine. But he didn't let the jolting pain stop him. He kept running, heard the bicycle falling to pieces behind him, clattering in the street.

  A large part, the frame perhaps, struck the dog.

  Frank heard a loud yelp. But he didn't dare look to see how badly the thing might be hurt. The beast's whimpers trailed off as Frank sprinted up Steve's driveway and behind the house to a basement window that he somehow knew would b
e waiting open.

  He dropped to his belly and crawled backwards into the basement, hitting his head on the window frame as he went. He fell as soon as his feet hit the floor, and the basement was filled with stars. He rubbed the base of his skull, it was tender, but there was no blood. When his eyes cleared, and adjusted to the dark, he looked up at the opened window, cursed it under his breath. But he then quickly climbed to his feet and pulled the window toward him, slamming down the latch to seal it shut.

  He took a step back to catch his breath, staring at the window as it filled with fog. But it wasn't his breath that clouded the glass. Beyond the pane Frank saw snarling jowls, shining canine teeth.

  The dog growled, paced back and forth, and then moved from view.

  It's probably gone back for the girl, since it can't get to me.

  He sat down in the leather chair in front of Steve's computer desk. He wiped his palms on his jeans, lifted his shirt to dab at his forehead.

  He listened.

  The house was quiet except for the sound of his own breathing. But then, from outside the basement window, came the sound of rustling leaves. Frank pictured the black dog wrestling in the autumn ground with another rabbit in its jaws, tearing the hide from its bones.

  The rustling sound grew louder and Frank dropped his shirt from his eyes to see the window smash to pieces, the black beast sailing though into the basement.

  Frank tumbled over the back of the chair and skidded across the coarse all-weather carpet. He pushed himself to his feet.

  The beast lunged forward. The top of the chair came down on the backs of Frank's knees and brought him to the carpet again. He heard the leather of the chair snap and puncture in the beast's jaws, and felt the chair lifted off his legs.

  He turned and saw the beast jerk its head, whipping the chair out of its way and into a storage closet, derailing a pair of sliding doors.

  Frank shot to his feet and climbed the stairs with all four of his limbs. He opened the door leading to the kitchen, sailed through, snapped the lock on the handle, and pressed his back against it. The wood bucked, shook in its frame, as the beast bounded against it.

  Frank pressed all of his weight into the door and looked around frantically for something, anything, to put between him and this beast at his back. The flickering bulb above the range poured light into a formal dining room just off the kitchen. And in the dining room, Frank remembered, is where Jill had wanted her piano. Frank had helped Steve move it in. He remembered being grateful then that the thing had wheels, and he was even more grateful now.

  He took a chance and left the door unguarded, ran to the old upright piano and pushed, leaning into it, and was overjoyed to find that it rolled smoothly over the stain-resistant carpet. He found it easy to angle the thing into the doorframe leading into the kitchen, and blocked the basement door.

  But Frank soon discovered that this barricade did nothing to diminish the beast's efforts. It only grew more determined, throwing itself at the door with more force, sending the door clapping against the back of the piano.

  Discordant chords filled the room with each new thrust.

  Then the howling started. The dog obviously didn't care for the music it was making. It roared with agony, clawed and scratched, and threw itself at the door.

  Frank searched the room for something with which to defend himself. He saw a wooden block of cutlery on the kitchen countertop. He considered leaping over the piano, but he didn't want to be caught next to the door when the beast burst through. Thankfully, there were two more entranceways that led into the kitchen.

  Frank decided to take the long way around and enter through the living room. He ran through jagged shadows, moonlight filtered through the jungle foliage of an adjacent screened-in porch.

  Frank slowed down when he saw the pair of erotic drawings, the glare of their glass panes. He stopped when the crack opened in the wall between them.

  The silver-gray hand poked out, clumsily rotating, spinning fast, losing its shape like a failed vase relapsing into clay on a potter's wheel. When Frank saw this, he forgot all about knives, though he still distinctly heard the dog's howling at his back. He was suddenly focused again on why he'd decided to come to Steve's house tonight in the first place. When he saw the crack in the wall, the spinning toy arm, his thoughts turned from knives to guns in an instant.

  Frank knew where Steve kept his collection. He turned and headed toward the opposite side of the house, toward the garage. But he found his path was blocked.

  Jill was standing there, shaking, her arms crossed over her chest. She was wearing a wispy see-through negligée with stockings and garters. Seeing this, Frank expected to find Steve standing close behind her, half-naked and furious. But Jill was alone. Tears ran down her face, glistening in the darkness.

  "What the hell's going on here?" She screamed over the howling, the beast knocking against her basement door.

  "Where's Steve?"

  "Get the hell out!"

  "Where's Steve?"

  "He's not here. Get out!"

  "Where is he?"

  "He's in Springfield washing his collectibles."

  "What?" Frank said. He ran both hands over the top of his head. "Washing his what?"

  "You heard me."

  "I need to get one of Steve's guns from the garage."

  Jill looked at the knives.

  "OK. Never mind. Does Steve have a sledgehammer?" Frank asked, pushing past Jill, making his way toward the garage. "A sledgehammer would be better anyway."

  She grabbed hold of his shirt to stop him. "What is going on in the basement? Is there some kind of dog in there?"

  "Yes," Frank said. "Let go."

  She jerked his arm and his shirtsleeve came off in her hand.

  "What do you need a sledgehammer for? Do you plan on killing that dog with it?"

  Frank didn't answer. He raced through the house—he could feel Jill following close behind—and threw open the door to the garage. He flipped on the light switch and his eyes fell on a ten-pound sledgehammer. He grabbed its handle with both hands and turned to face Jill.

  She flinched.

  "Move," Frank said.

  Jill quickly stepped aside and let him pass.

  Frank raised the hammer over his head, ran the length of the house to the living room, and smashed its head into the wall, opening a second hole. The erotic artwork crashed to the floor. Frank fell back a few steps and took another swing. A third hole appeared and then a fourth and fifth.

  Frank pounded the wall as the beast crashed into the basement door behind him. He heaved and smashed. Plaster fell in ragged sheets and crumbled on the carpet. Boards split and cracked, splintered and sprayed with each blow. Frank didn't stop until the hole resembled the proscenium of a small theater.

  He dropped the hammer and fell into an easy chair to sweat, chest heaving. His muscles felt as if they'd been pulled from his bones.

  The dog had stopped howling. The house was quiet. The door no longer pounded the back of the piano. Frank searched the room. Jill was gone.

  She probably ran out into the street when I started tearing down the wall.

  Frank turned his attention back to the gaping hole and the darkness beyond. There were no stars, no silvery shapes. The doll's arm was hiding somewhere in the void, afraid to show itself now that Frank could come in after it.

  Frank sat and stared at the hole. His fingers combed the soft fabric of the easy chair, and he was thankful not to be sitting on a pile of conjoined porn stars, not to be running his fingers over the hairy forearms of Jerome Kidd or Ricky T-Bone.

  He stared at nothing for a long time before the silvery-gray hand re-emerged. It poked out from a spot high overhead, peeking around a place near the top of the hole. Frank tilted his head back into the soft cushion of the chair and watched the toy dance its wobbly dance, but sat up straight when he saw the hand move out of the wall toward him, reaching out as if its forearm were growing at an accelerated pace. It sp
anned a length of more than eight feet, coming to a stop just a few inches from his nose.

  He could now see the tiny silver fingernails of the doll's hand. The creases in its bent fingers were deep. The bolts that joined the hand to the doll's wrist were large and rusted.

  Frank looked beyond the hand and saw that the arm hadn't stretched at all. The arm itself was less than six inches in length. It was just stuck to the end of a very long wooden stick.

  Frank reached up to touch the hand, and it didn't move. It even allowed him to press his index finger into its palm. Even greeted his touch with a little squeeze.

  Frank screamed, swiping the thing from his face, knocking it across the room.

  The plastic arm flopped against the television, and the tiny hand turned it on. The room was awash in flickering light. The screen filled with the muted image of a talent-show singer, her eyes squinted shut, her arms raised for the end of her ballad.

  The doll's arm rose, still held by whatever force lay beyond the wall, and twirled at the center of the screen.

  Frank stood, grabbed hold of the stick and tugged it hard toward him.

  It didn't move. His hands just slipped down its length.

  He took a firmer grip and the stick jerked back, pulling him a foot closer to the hole.

  Frank let go, not wanting to be dragged into oblivion. He retreated, and the doll's hand followed, suspended before his face, backing him into the wall opposite the gaping hole.

  Then Frank saw the hand wielding the stick emerge from the darkness. Its fingers were wrapped around the handle, forming a fist larger than Frank's head.

  The doll's arm smashed through the wall next to his right ear. The stick supporting it snapped to pieces and scattered throughout the room.

  The giant fist opened and became a reaching hand, dark gray, almost black. The lines of its palm were deep, shining white in the television's uneven brilliance. Only three fingers and a thumb. The joints shifted against one another as the fingers expanded, as if each segment were covered with cold, chitinous plate armor. The hand looked less like a human hand, and more like a talon belonging to a bird of prey.