by Sam Best
He walked into his childhood bedroom and sat next to Annabelle on the bed. John stood at the window, arms crossed, looking down into the woods. Heidi sat on the other side of Anna and rubbed her back. Tommy lay on the floor in a fetal curl, sucking on his thumb.
Ben gently brushed a lock of hair from Anna’s face. “I’m here, sweetie,” he said. She reached for him and he pulled her close, then kissed the top of her head and squeezed her tightly.
“Daddy, that hurts.”
“Sorry,” he said as he loosened his grip. He smiled but there were tears in his eyes. “Sorry, Belle.”
“Are you scared?” she asked.
He held up his thumb and forefinger and pinched them together. “Only this much.”
“That’s not much at all.”
“Nope. How about you?”
She nodded and Ben reached up to ruffle her hair.
“Nothing to worry about, kiddo. We’ll be out of here soon enough and we’ll go to the police station where we can call for help.”
“I want Mommy.”
Heidi put a hand to her mouth and turned away.
Ben swallowed hard. “So do I, sweetie,” he whispered. “So do I.”
“Howard!” shouted Karen from downstairs.
Ben made sure his daughter looked into his eyes. “I’ll be right back, Belle.”
“Howard!”
He ran for the door and hurried down the stairs, skipping the last one and landing on the floor with a loud creak of wood.
“Quiet!” said Raines. “You hear that?”
Ben held his breath and stood still.
Foster sat on the couch, eyes closed, head in his hands. Blake stood next to Karen; they both looked up to the ceiling and cocked their heads slightly to the side as if they were listening to distant sounds.
Ben shook his head. “I don’t hear—”
“Shh!”
Ben listened, then he heard a noise—the light scratching of something hard against wood. Quick, little scrapes as if someone were etching words into the walls of the house.
“It’s coming from the kitchen,” said Blake.
Ben walked past Foster, who didn’t bother to lift his head, and stood next to the island in the center of the kitchen. He listened.
Scritch scritch scritch.
Blake went to the window over the sink and looked into the backyard. “I don’t see anything.”
Ben took a step and then stopped. “That’s because it’s coming from the basement.”
“You’re joking,” said Karen.
Ben walked over to the padlocked door that led down to the cold cellar below the house. Green paint peeled across the surface of the paneled door and the hinges were rusted. The padlock was still firmly closed. Ben put his ear against the door.
Scritch scritch scritch.
“How did it get down there?” whispered Karen.
“Is there a grain chute or something?” said Blake.
Ben shook his head. The scratching stopped.
SLAM.
The door bent outward in the middle from the force of the impact and Ben jumped back quickly.
SLAM SLAM SLAM SLAM.
The wood split in the middle of the door and burst into the kitchen, showering Ben with splinters. A thin, clawed hand shot out of the black, jagged hole and scraped the outside of the door in a violent attempt to grab hold.
Blake reached up to the magnetic strip hanging over the island in the kitchen and pulled down a butcher’s knife. He lunged at the arm, slicing at it just above the elbow. Black sludge exploded from the wound and splattered to the floor like congealed paint.
The arm writhed and slammed back and forth against the sharp edge of the hole, tearing new wounds into the wet, mottled-black flesh. The creature in the basement screamed like a dying cat and disappeared from the hole.
Karen stepped up to the hole and fired a slug down into the basement. Orange light flashed over her face when she pulled the trigger.
“Let’s cover this thing up,” said Ben. “Then I need to check on Anna.” He looked over and saw Foster sitting on the couch. “Make yourself useful, Walt.”
Foster ignored him.
Ben turned away from the basement door just as it was knocked off its hinges. It slammed into his back and pushed him to the ground on his stomach. Ben tried to push himself up but something heavy landed on the other side of the door.
Blake said, “Oh my God,” and then there was the loud boom of Karen’s shotgun.
A body fell to the ground next to Ben and the door was lifted from his back. Blake grabbed his arm and hauled him to his feet.
“You okay?”
Ben patted his chest absently. “I think so.” He stared at the dead thing on the ground next to the door. The shotgun blast had disintegrated most of its torso, but the rest of it was intact.
It was about the size of a small child. Backward-bending arms and legs led up to a ribcage, over which stretched tight, translucent, black flesh. A thin neck snaked up to the large head which lay face-down against the floor.
Blake used the tip of his shoe to turn the head to the side.
“Come on, Blake, don’t touch it,” said Karen.
The head rolled over and dead eyes stared up at them. Karen ran to the sink and vomited. Ben took a step back and stared, unable to comprehend what he was seeing.
The face was human. Distorted and horrific—the eyes were too large and the lips were peeled back impossibly far to reveal long, sharp teeth—but it was human.
“What the hell is it?” said Blake.
“I need a weapon,” said Ben.
“Take this,” said Karen.
She pulled her .38 special from its holster and handed it to Ben. He nodded and pulled back the hammer until it clicked comfortably into place.
Blake looked down at his knife and frowned.
“Sorry,” said Karen. “Now let’s find something to block this up.”
Ben and Karen walked past the basement entrance. There was a noise of claws scraping over wood planking and Karen screamed. She dropped her shotgun as slimy hands grabbed her ankles and pulled her off her feet. She was dragged down the basement stairs with lighting speed. Ben reached out for her but it was too late. Her head banged against the wooden steps and she disappeared into the blackness below. More arms reached out of the shadows in the basement and grabbed at Ben’s legs, tearing holes in his jeans and scraping at his skin. He dropped the revolver and held on to the door frame as tightly as he could, but his grip was slipping.
Blake dropped his knife and held onto Ben’s arms. Ben kicked at the things in the basement until they let go and disappeared into the shadows.
Blake hauled Ben onto the kitchen floor and picked up Karen’s shotgun as he stood at the basement entrance.
“Karen!” he shouted.
When no answer came, he ran down the steps into the basement.
“Wait!” said Ben, but Blake was already at the bottom of the stairs and out of sight.
The dark room below was lit briefly by two bright orange blasts from the shotgun. Something screamed—an inhuman screech that lifted Ben’s skin off his body.
“Howard!” shouted Blake.
Ben picked up Karen’s revolver and ran down the stairs.
* * *
John stood at the window in his nephew’s old bedroom and looked down at the large, unnatural silhouette standing in the shadows of the trees. It had been pacing back and forth earlier on four long limbs, then stood up on its two hind legs and waited as still as a statue.
John was convinced it was staring at him.
Heidi sat on the bed, staring off into nothingness while she mechanically rubbed the same small area on Anna’s back. The boy, Tommy, had said nothing since coming upstairs; he lay on the ground and sucked his thumb as if he had reverted back to an earlier part of his childhood.
John couldn’t blame him. If he had been allowed to do so, he would probably be on the ground as well, sucking his ow
n thumb and trying to forget everything that was happening.
A shotgun blast echoed up the stairs and wood crunched loudly.
“Oh!” said Heidi.
“Stay here,” said John.
He moved for the bedroom door but Heidi screamed. He turned back just as the window on the far side of the bedroom shattered inward. Heidi pushed Annabelle down to the bed and bent over her.
Tommy rolled across the floor until he hit the wall next to the door and curled into a ball, his eyes closed tightly.
A terrible creature crouched on the windowsill and growled at John through long, pointed teeth. Matted human hair sprang from the top and sides of a nightmarish human face and big, bloodshot eyes swiveled as they scanned the room.
It’s a woman, thought John.
But it wasn’t. It was a monster. The small body was covered in thin black skin and long, clawed fingers clutched the jagged windowsill as it sat there studying the room. It made clicking and growling noises, interspersed with brief, rapid screeches.
It jumped onto the bed and crawled like a crab on its fours limbs around Heidi and Annabelle. It stared at the little girl and its oversized head wobbled forward on its long, thin neck, its razored mouth agape.
“No!” shouted John.
He lunged forward and struck the thing with one balled-up fist. It screamed and jumped sideways, then smacked against the wall and fell to the ground with a loud thud. Its four jointed limbs flailed wildly and scraped against the wall and floor as it tried to right itself. It managed to get a limb under its body and flipped itself over.
The thing looked at John and its face twisted into rage. It leaned back and launched into the air, directly at his chest.
The bedroom door flew open and a gunshot cracked loudly.
The monster, mid-leap, curled into itself like a dead spider and thumped against John’s chest. He backed away in revulsion as it plopped to the ground, dead.
Walt Foster stood in the doorway, breathing heavily. A thin trail of grey smoke rose from the end of his service revolver.
Tommy slowly sat up, unable to take his eyes off the face of the monster. Heidi cradled Annabelle close.
John let out a long breath. “Thank you, Mr. Foster. How are things downst—”
Another shot rang out. Heidi screamed and John stumbled backward. It felt as if someone had punched him in the chest. An invisible finger jammed down into his ribcage; he felt the hole, dull and hollow.
He looked down and touched the bloody edges of a small hole in his shirt over his heart. A small ring of raised flesh stared back at him, its pulpy center a wet, unblinking eye.
His vision blurred and he dropped to his knees.
Walt Foster lowered his revolver and walked over to the bed. Heidi was screaming, but John couldn’t hear anything. Foster’s footsteps shook the ground as he walked across the floor. John blinked, and when he opened his eyes he was on the floor. Foster ran out of the bedroom with Annabelle tucked firmly under one arm. She was screaming, too, but John could not hear her.
He rolled onto his back and looked up at the ceiling. Heidi appeared. Soft light limned the dark silhouette of her head. Her tears fell onto his face and he reached up to touch her cheek. She closed her eyes at his touch, and he closed his eyes, too.
* * *
The basement was crawling with the things, a dozen at least.
Blake waded into them, firing the shotgun until the chamber clicked empty, then swinging at the screeching mass with the butt of the gun.
“Howard!” he shouted.
Ben stood halfway down the stairs, firing at the ones closest to Blake’s feet.
“They got Karen!” shouted Blake. “They took her outside!” He lifted his foot and brought his heavy construction boot down onto the head of one of the monsters. Black sludge gushed from the side of its broken skull and it shuddered until it died.
“I only have two shots left!” shouted Ben.
Blake held the shotgun like a baseball bat and swatted one of the things across the room when it leapt toward him. He screamed as one of them bit into his shin with long teeth. Ben aimed carefully with the revolver and shot the thing through the center of its torso. The body went limp and Blake kicked it away.
Ben used his last bullet as one of the things lurched up the stairs for him. The shot split its head and sent it toppling backward.
“I’m out!”
He looked wildly around the small basement. Wooden shelves that held nothing useful lined the dirt walls. Rotting boxes sat piled in one corner.
Blake stood in the dim rectangle of light at the bottom of the stairs, ready to swing the shotgun at anything that got too close. The monsters skittered in the shadows just out of sight.
“Need some light down here,” he said.
Ben stood and ran up the stairs. He went into the kitchen and opened the cabinet below the sink. Pushing past bottles of liquid soap, he found a can of aerosol disinfectant. In a drawer next to the sink was a book of matches.
Ben ran back down the basement stairs and stood next to Blake. One of the monsters stepped into the light and Blake caved in its skull with the butt of the shotgun.
“Get ready,” said Ben. He shook the can of disinfectant, then struck a match. He held the can outward, depressed the nozzle until a stream of white particles shot out, then held the match to the stream.
Orange-red fire streaked out into the shadows like a flaming sword. The monsters screamed and crawled away from the light, but Ben stepped forward and swept the burning spray over their skin. They ran to all four corners of the room, banging into the walls and wailing like banshees.
One of them crawled up the wall and disappeared into a two-foot-wide black hole dug into the hard-packed dirt near the ceiling.
“There!” shouted Blake, nodding toward the hole. He swung at one of the monsters when it got too close.
Ben heard what sounded like a gunshot from upstairs, but it was too muffled to be sure. “Did you hear that?” he shouted.
Blake didn’t answer. He grunted as one of the things tried to crawl up his leg and bite his thigh. Blake grabbed its neck and threw it across the room.
Ben slowly stepped toward one corner of the room where a cluster of the things had gathered. Four or five of them were crawling over each other in a mad scramble to escape the approaching fire. Ben swept the flame over them until their screaming quieted and they lay still. Behind him, he heard Blake’s boot crush another skull.
“That’s it,” said Blake. “That’s the last one.”
The flame from the aerosol can slowly receded and died as the last of the liquid dripped from the nozzle. The basement fell into shadow once more.
“They got Karen,” said Blake. “She’s gone.”
Ben walked back and stood in the light next to the stairs.
“I’m going to check on Annabelle,” he said. “Come on, Blake.”
Ben climbed the steps and looked back. A moment later, Blake appeared in the light, head hung low. He ascended the basement stairs and walked past Ben, then sat on the couch in the sitting room with the shotgun laid across his lap and stared at the wall.
Ben hurried past Blake and ran up the stairs.
“Anna!” he said loudly. “John!”
The bedroom door was open.
Heidi sat on the floor, John’s head cradled in her lap. Dark red blood covered his shirt over his chest. Tommy sat against the wall staring at the dead body of one of the creatures.
Ben ran into the room and knelt down next to John. He instinctively reached out and touched the large red stain on his chest. He looked at the shiny blood on his palm. Next to John, on the floor, the black, beady eyes of Mr. Hops stared up at him.
“John?” he said. Ben shook the old man’s shoulders and Heidi whimpered and turned away. “What happened? Where’s Annabelle?”
John’s head fell back and Ben let go of his shoulders.
“He took her,” whispered Heidi. “He took her.”
“The other deputy.”
Ben’s hands dropped to the ground and he stared at John’s dead body.
“No…”
He rested an open palm on John’s chest, willing a breath to fill the man’s lungs and bring him back to life.
“John,” said Heidi. “John, John, my John.”
A car engine roared to life in the driveway.
Ben jumped to his feet and ran to the window, his shoes crunching over broken glass as he moved.
Blake sat behind the wheel of Karen’s police cruiser. Headlights pierced the dark driveway as the car peeled away from the house, sending a spray of dirt and rocks shooting up into the air. The car bounced over the small incline at the end of the driveway and disappeared into the night.
“Where’s he going?” said Heidi softly.
“Probably to try and find Karen.” Ben frowned. “But where did it take her?”
Heidi shook her head and rocked back and forth as she held onto John. “He’ll die. He’ll die.” She sniffed and wiped her eyes. “What are we going to do?”
Ben looked into the woods next to the house and could see nothing moving in the shadows. The creatures would have tried to get Blake if any were still lurking around out there.
“We’re going to the police station,” said Ben. “I need to talk to the preacher.”
21
Ben drove fast and kept the headlights off. The Jeep’s cracked windshield captured the light from street lamps and splintered it across the glass in front of him, making it hard to see the black asphalt of the road in front of the car.
Tommy sat in the passenger seat staring blankly out the window and Heidi rode silently on the bench seat in the back, her head leaned back and her eyes closed. It had been hard to convince her that the best thing to do was to leave John’s body in the house so the three of them that remained could move as quickly as possible. Betrayal flashed across her eyes when Ben told her they had to leave her husband’s body behind, but the anger that followed disappeared quickly as soon as the trio of survivors left the house.
