by Peter Giglio
Allan bolted from his room.
He gasped when he saw the scene playing out in the living room. His mother’s wrists tied behind her back, Kyle repeatedly backhanded her across the face. She cried for him to stop, but his maniacal expression didn’t betray human limitations or any level of decency. He didn’t even have the tact to take his debauchery into the bedroom.
“Get the fuck out of our house!” Allan shouted, drawing Kyle’s attention away from his victim.
“Hey, sport,” Kyle said with a grin, “we’re just playing a little game is all. Consenting adults and all—you know how it is? So head back to your room and mind your own pecker, okay?”
Tears flooded his mother’s face, terror radiating from her eyes. Allan was sure this wasn’t a consensual game. Standing his ground, though Kyle was nearly twice his size, Allan shook his head and said, “No! Either you get out of here or I’m calling the cops.” Then, looking at his mother, he cringed at the sight of her bloody nose and black eye, trying to determine if she needed immediate medical attention. “You okay, Mom?” he asked dumbly, at a loss for anything better to say.
“Just go into your room, sweetie” she said, breathing heavily. “I’ll…I’ll be fine.”
“Bullshit,” Allan said, shifting his attention back on Kyle, who crossed his arms, looking like some kind of roadhouse bouncer.
“You heard the lady,” Kyle said. “Scram!”
“No way, asshole,” Allan said, “I need you to get out of here or I’m—”
But he never finished the sentence. Kyle stormed across the room and punched him in the face. The world spun crazily, his mother’s crying intensified, then he blacked out.
***
He was brought back to consciousness by the stench of gasoline. His hands were bound behind his back, and he was on his knees with his head pressed against the south wall of his bedroom. Pain screamed through his head, his body numb with shock.
Moonlight cast Kyle’s shadow onto the wall, looming large in Allan’s cloudy gaze. A fresh splash of gasoline fell into Allan’s eyes, and he screamed.
“Told you to mind your own business,” Kyle said.
“Don’t hurt him,” Allan’s mother pleaded from the other room.
“You’re crazy,” Allan said, frantically trying to blink away the burn.
Kyle snapped his Zippo repeatedly, leaning his head over Allan’s shoulder.
Click—clack. Click—clack.
“You’re gonna do time for this,” Allan threatened.
Click—clack. Click—clack.
“Jesus Chris,” Allan cried, “just leave us alone.”
Click—clack. Click—clack.
“I’m not going to—”
A bright ball of flame filled his vision, cutting off his words, a million jagged needles blazing through his marrow. He screamed…and screamed…until the fire engulfed his throat, pain escalating past reason, suffocating him as he felt his flesh melt and heard his mother weep.
“Damn it, kid!” Kyle shouted. “Was just trying to scare you. Didn’t have to get so close to the—”
Then Allan’s hearing went with a painful pop and a shrill scream, his body falling into itself, losing sense of gravity, of time, of self.
The last thought he clung to: Ann. Their date on Friday…how sorry he was that he wouldn’t make it. Maybe some other time…maybe…
Then nothing.
– X –
Shadowall and the Cellar
An image of what might have been, two shadows grace the brightly lit wall. One of them is clearly a representation of Allan; the other, Ann. Dancing to a song that can’t be heard. “Ann and Allan”—she liked the sound of that, and so did he. Elegantly, lovingly, they move.
But the ghost of Allan is frozen, the newspaper, open to his obituary, still lying in his lap.
Finally, although still transfixed by Shadowall, he manages to stand. He traces Ann’s outline with a gentle touch. Presses harder. And his hand penetrates the wall, a partition that doesn’t lead into another room of the house. Where it goes, he doesn’t know. But he wants to find out soon. He extends his hand to another wall, one that leads into the night. His hand goes through. He’s no longer a prisoner.
He wants to leave. To run free. For now, however, there’s still unfinished business at Sunfall Manor, and the dawn is fast approaching.
He scampers down the narrow stairwell. Dashes into Mac’s place and grabs the Zippo and the cell phone from the coffee table.
Click—clack. Click—clack.
Then he rushes into the kitchen, finds what he’s looking for—a phonebook— with a stack of dirty dishes on top of it. He snatches the book, dishes tumbling down, shattering on the floor.
Back in Mac’s living room, Allan throws the directory open, turns to P, runs his finger down the page until he finds a listing for J. Poe, the only Poe in the book. He punches in her number, presses send, and waits.
One ring…two…three…four—
“You’ve reached the phone of Jane Poe,” the older but still recognizable voice says. “If you’re interested in an apartment at Sunfall Manor, please leave your name and number after the beep. We’re filled to capacity currently, but vacancies can happen at any time, and I’d be more than happy to add your name to the waiting list.”
Beep.
Though he knows she can’t hear his voice, he says, “Hi, Mom. Remember me? Just read about my ‘accident’ in the paper. Know I’m a little late to the party, but…I’m coming for you. I can’t say for sure how I know it, but I’m coming for you. Soon!” He presses end and tosses the phone at Mac, who’s still breathing, but in a strained, shallow manner.
Sunfall Manor is ripe and ready to bloom.
In the hallway, ready to rush back to the attic, he’s stopped by a loud metallic clanking that’s echoing up the stairwell. The teakettle hiss is now gone, and he wonders if someone is fixing the leak. One thing’s for sure, someone or something is banging on the pipes in the cellar. Briskly, he follows the noise downward.
Click—clack. Click—clack.
He’s not even aware he’s playing with the lighter, his focus intent on the sounds from the cellar, growing louder as he descends.
Clang…clang…clang…
Click—clack. Click—clack.
He walks through the front door, greeted by a gentle breeze. It feels good on his face, doesn’t seem to go through him, and he smiles.
Crows caw. Dogs bark. The corn rustles.
The night, so unlike Sunfall Manor, is alive. The low moon is curved like a question mark in the star-sprinkled sky.
Click—clack. Click—clack.
Clang…clang…clang…
He moves around the house quickly, mindful of the moon’s position, aware that time is short, and stops at the cellar door.
Click—clack. Click—clack.
Clang…clang…clang…
He is afraid to go below, senses that something terrifying is waiting for him there. But he also knows he has no choice.
Click—clack. Click—clack.
Clang…clang…clang…
Through the door, he enters the filthy, cob-webbed space, and the clanging suddenly stops, something moving in the darkness. Guided by the moonlight, bleeding through a broken windowpane, he navigates his way down crumbling stone steps.
With a click, a light bulb comes alive. Holding the light’s cord in one hand and a wrench in the other, Kyle Irvin sneers at Allan. “Who the hell are you?” Kyle says.
“You don’t recognize me?” Allan asks angrily.
Click—clack. Click—clack.
Kyle jumps back, a shocked look on his face. “You can see me? You can hear me?” Then he looks down at the lighter in Allan’s hand and smiles. “And you brought me a little present, too. Just what I was looking for.”
Allan, filled with rage, doesn’t know what to do. Here he is, faced with his own murderer, but the man—the ghost—evidently doesn’t know who he is. Just like Al
lan, he’s a prisoner, looking for a means of escape.
Click—clack. Click—clack.
“Come on, friend,” Kyle says with a smile, “Don’t just stand there. Bring me that torch and let me send this place to the moon.”
Now consciously aware of the Zippo, Allan brings it to his face. Stares at it. And sees a reflection in the lighter’s golden sheen, though not of his face. Reflected back, Kyle’s yellow-toothed grin on that long-ago night.
“Kyle Irvin,” Allan says, then casts his eyes on the other ghost in the cellar.
A dumbfounded look envelops Kyle, and he takes a few steps backward, awareness and recognition dancing in his eyes. “Holy shit,” he moans. “Holy fuckin’ shit.”
Click—clack. Click—clack.
“Look, kid,” Kyle says, a nervous smile taking shape, “let’s say you light this candle and we’ll let God sort everything out.”
“I don’t believe in God.”
“Well, then we’ll let the devil take a stab at our grudge.”
“Don’t believe in him, either.”
“C’mon, kid. We both know that what I done was wrong, and that it was an accident, right?”
Allan shakes his head.
“Man, I’ve been trapped down here in the dark for longer than I know. Turn the light on only when I need to, when I get scared down here, so it don’t burn out on me. I…I think I’ve paid plenty for my sins.”
“I know why I’m here,” Allan says, “but why are you?”
“Your mom felt sorry for me, let me move in after you died. I had nowhere else to go after spending the last of my money on the trial.”
“The trial?”
“Yeah, your mom and me cooked up a little suicide note for you, but certain authorities weren’t buying it.”
“And…”
“Well, I got off. Not enough evidence to convict me. But your mom, best woman I ever knew, took me in, let me stay down here in the cellar. Set up a bed for me and everything. Never let me have my way with her again, but I didn’t mind none. Whatever you do, don’t be mad at your mama. She was a real God-fearing woman. Got her life together, too.
“But I couldn’t. I was really sorry for what I done to you, still am, and I drank myself to death down here. I don’t know no more than that, and I didn’t even know all that ‘fore you came down here.”
“That’s all I needed to know,” Allan says, then he moves toward the exit.
“Where you going?” Kyle says.
But Allan doesn’t reply, just turns and watches Kyle’s furious advance.
Kyle swings a clenched fist. But it only goes through Allan, throwing Kyle off balance. He stumbles across the cracked floor, then looks up angrily and says, “Give me that fuckin’ lighter.”
Allan moves toward the cellar door, shaking his head. In a flash, Allan’s outside again, Kyle pounding on the other side of the door. “Get back here,” he says. “Get back here and set me free.”
Click—clack. Click—clack.
***
In the attic, the two dancing forms are still graceful on the south wall as Allan enters and hears a car pull up to the house. He looks out a thin rectangular window and sees Ralph’s car, dimly visible in the purple, pre-dawn haze. Ralph slams the car door and ambles toward the house.
Ann and Shadow-Allan break into swing moves as Allan breaks newspapers into smaller stacks, spreading them evenly across the floor.
The Simmons’ door slams downstairs as Allan finishes his work. He waits, then enjoys the sound of Ralph’s scream. “Serves the fucker right,” he whispers.
Click—clack. Click—clack.
Allan’s only concern is for Mike. But Mike’s old, doesn’t have much time left. And he wouldn’t have minded God taking him home when he’d been only five. Yes indeed, Mike will be just fine, performing his puppet shows for angels like himself. This cruel world isn’t good enough for guys like Mike.
Allan flicks the lighter, which ignites a pocket of gas in the air. He jerks back with a laugh. This is going to be fun, he thinks.
Ann and Shadow-Allan are really swinging now.
Click—clack. Click—clack.
He doesn’t care what happens to Kyle Irvin. Kyle’s already dead, and there’s nothing he can do about him. He knows what he needs to know—what the newspaper already alluded to—that his mother was complicit in his death. Vengeance will be his. He doesn’t know how, but he knows his target. And the way things are playing out, he’s sure she’s just beyond Shadowall. Maybe even waiting for him. The clockwork of death, far more precise than that of the living, is his.
Moving across the floor quickly, he applies the Zippo’s flame to the stacks of newspapers, then stands back, watching the floor disappear beneath a bluish wall of fast-moving madness.
Flames crackle.
An explosion bellows.
Glass shatters.
Shadow-Allan picks up Ann and spins her around his back, her skirt flying high.
Click—clack. Click—clack.
Allan drops the lighter to the floor, then, through the raging fire, grins as he runs at Shadowall.
He leaps—
Shadowall darkens.
—and crashes against the exposed studs of the now-naked wall, a cold barricade once more. Pain slicing through his side, Allan falls to the burning floor with a whimper.
Another explosion sounds. Allan’s world tilts sideways.
Then he’s falling…
…pain beyond reason screaming through his burning body…
No, his mind screams. No! This isn’t fair! Then again, life was never fair. Why should death be any different?
Wrapped in darkness, wishing that awareness and pain would die, though they don’t, he keeps burning and falling…
Click—clack. Click—clack.
…burning and falling…
Click—clack. Click—clack.
…burning and falling through a timeless void…
…burning and falling for eternity.
THE END
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Peter Giglio (an active member of the HWA) is a Pushcart nominated novelist, editor, and screenwriter. His novels include Anon, Beyond Anon, and The Dark (with Scott Bradley). Sunfall Manor is his third published novella and the first in a series of long works set in the small fictional town of Sunfall, Nebraska. Peter’s work has been published or is forthcoming from Black Dog & Leventhal (New York), Etopia Press, Dark Moon Books, Ravenous Shadows, and Nightscape Press, to name a few. He’s actively (with co-writer Scott Bradley) shopping a feature-length screen adaptation of Joe R. Lansdale’s “The Night They Missed the Horror Show,” with a strong endorsement from Mr. Lansdale, and is working on (under option) a screen adaptation of Rick Hautala’s Little Brothers. In addition, the film rights for Sunfall Manor are currently under option by an established screenwriting team based in Los Angeles. Peter always has time for readers at petergiglio.com, Facebook, and petergiglioauthor.blogspot.com
