Beast In The Basement

by Jason Arnopp

  My thoughts race along with my pulse. Creaks from that basement door must have woken me up. I mumble to myself: my voice sounding weirdly loud, distorted and warped, like my ears are blocked.

  "Shit, shit, shit..."

  Still half asleep, I glance around the room. Is the baseball bat even here?

  I look back at the screen. That figure, The Beast, is no longer on Camera One. The hallway is unoccupied.

  My eyes flit across the screen to Camera Two's feed. No, it's not in the kitchen.

  With a terrible, flesh-crawling sense of inevitability, I look at Camera Three.

  There it is. The Beast, quite still on the first floor landing. Can't make out its face, but I sense it gazing up at the camera. Gazing through the lens at me.

  I picture that eye. Malevolent, soul-scouring.

  And I find myself howling down through the house, my voice deafening inside my head, fierce prickles dancing up and down my spine. "Get back in there, or I'll fucking kill you!"

  Do I mean that? I think I probably do. But where's the damn baseball bat? I dart around the moonlit room, searching, desperate.

  It's not here. The light switch is too far away and I'm afraid to go near the door.

  I glance again at the flat screen. Camera Three now shows the first floor's empty landing.

  I look to Camera Four.

  The second floor's landing is also empty. Maybe it's halfway up the stairs. Maybe–

  The breathing.

  I hear the breathing.

  I smell that terrible reek.

  It's all right behind me.

  Every fibre of my being is on fire as I slowly turn around, knowing full well what I'll see.

  The Beast lurks in the shadows, mere feet away, facing me.

  An obese, horrendous pause, as if it's savouring this moment.

  It jaw slowly drops, like a ventriloquist's dummy. When it speaks, it has the voice of a six-year-old boy.

  My six-year-old boy.

  "Daddy! It's here!"

  The Beast bursts apart into shadowy snakes which leap for me, wrapping themselves around my throat and squeezing, maintaining an immense pressure until blood pisses from my eyes. Everything turns red, accompanied by a deafening cacophony of screeching brakes and Sylvie's screams and–

  I wake up on the chaise longue, groggy, terrified, gasping for air.

  I'm no longer wearing my glasses. They've fallen off to one side, dangling, causing the cord to tighten around my neck.

  I look around me. No sign of The Beast. Nothing at all. The room is peaceful.

  I pray that, this time, I'm truly awake. I repeatedly slap my face.

  This seems real enough. Then again, so did the last fraudulent reality. For safety's sake, I stumble across the room and hammer at the wall-switch.

  Only then, as I'm bathed in light, do I feel brave enough to slide my glasses back on and examine the evidence of the flat screen.

  My skin feels hot all over as I look from one screen to the next.

  Camera One: the hallway, empty.

  Camera Two: the kitchen, empty.

  Camera Three: the first floor landing, empty.

  Camera Four: the second floor landing, empty.

  I allow myself to breathe again, trying to keep it steady. That was just a dream. Just my fucked-up brain having fun at my expense. Fears and memories surging forth like lava.

  Then the thought strikes me. What if the dream was my subconscious mind's way of reminding me that I didn't lock the basement door properly?

  * * *

  I can't wait to get out of this house.

  At every twist and turn, down all these flights of stairs, it feels like a trap is waiting to spring on me.

  Every creak, bump and groan could be phantoms, waiting to strike.

  Once the basement's door-handle is in my grasp, an exploratory twist assures me that The Beast still cannot escape.

  I head into the kitchen and fire up the kettle. There's no chance of any further sleep tonight and I don't want any. Sleep has become another threatening world, full of traps and phantoms.

  There's no escape from any of it. Ever again.

  Still, some caffeine can't hurt.

  The doorbell rings, ramming dread through me.

  I stick my head out into the hallway, staring at the door as if hoping to magically see through it.

  Behind me, the kettle tremors as steam gushes from its spout.

  For a moment, I consider ignoring whoever has arrived in the middle of the night. Let's keep the bubble intact, shall we? Yes, that's best.

  The doorbell rings again.

  Whoever it is, they're persistent. I'll have to face them. God, please don't let it be Maurice.

  Moments later, I open the door to reveal Maddy, hurriedly dressed and using an iPhone as a torch. She manages to appear both apologetic and worried.

  "Sorry. It's just... I heard screaming and yells and things. Is everything all right?"

  CHAPTER FIVE: THE RED LOTUS

  "Oh, it's fine, don't worry," I tell Maddy. "The kettle was boiling anyway."

  I could hardly turn the woman away when she showed such concern.

  I'm not so much rusty at playing host, as downright useless. In Britain, when death strikes, friends suddenly become reluctant to visit – and in fairness, Sylvie and I didn't exactly send invites. We were too busy dealing with the horror in our own very distinct ways.

  Upon ushering Maddy in, I'd promised her a cup of tea, which she has now ended up making herself, along with strong black coffee for me.

  We sit together at a table in a ground floor dining room into which I've rarely set foot. She thankfully leads the conversation, as I'm still sluggish and all over the place. I sip enthusiastically at the coffee, hoping it might glue what's left of my brain back together. The hot liquid aggravates my tooth and gums, reminding me that painkillers will be needed pretty damn soon.

  "So you had a bad dream, eh?" Maddy appears bemused. Somehow endearingly, she's also taking the mickey. Testing my sense of humour. Grown man, having a bad dream?

  I could react to this in two different ways. I could take offence and tell her she has no fucking idea what I've been through, and that if she'd experienced it, she'd sure as hell be having bad dreams too.

  I decide to take the high road. "Yes. Silly, isn't it? No idea what came over me. Do you... ever have bad dreams?"

  The psychiatrist again. Firing it all straight back.

  Maddy places her cup back on the saucer with a soft clink. It's still dark outside. A shame, as I'd previously enjoyed the sunlight dancing in her eyes (I told you to forget about those eyes, forget them. Nothing can happen with this woman.)

  "You know, I barely have dreams at all, these days. I miss them. I sometimes think my life has become so dull that my mind no longer has any... I don't know... dream-fuel?"

  "I envy you," I say, suddenly unable to maintain a breezy delivery. It's just too tiring to hoist the corners of my mouth and make my eyes gleam. I can tell Maddy notices the darkening of tone, which no doubt prompts her to change the subject.

  "Sorry again, for coming over. I'd just hate to think that someone had broken in, or something, and I'd done bugger all about it."

  "Funny you should say that. I meant to warn you, yesterday – someone did break in here, two nights ago."

  Her eyebrows raise sharply. "Oh, really? Were you home?"

  "It wasn't pleasant. You should really fix a burglar alarm. There's a hardware shop in town. Can't remember the name, but it's on that main stretch, near Burger King."

  "Gosh," she says. I love 'gosh'. Haven't heard a 'gosh' in a long time. "I'd assumed it was so safe out here, away from city life."

  "You're not making it easier on yourself, entering strange men's homes."

  Oh dear God. Am I flirting now? I think I am. The corners of my mouth have hoisted again and I probably have a rakish twinkle in my eye. No, no, no, this is inappropriate on so many levels.

  Maddy
chuckles. Incredibly, she seems to be flirting back. "I suppose you are a trifle strange. May I ask what you do for a living?"

  I ponder this for a moment. Do I lie?

  "I'm a writer."

  "Ooh, now that is strange. And exciting. What kind of thing do you write?"

  "Oh, nothing major yet."

  She seems genuinely enthralled. "Brilliant! I love novels. Big fan of Lisa Jewell, Marian Keyes... oh, and my guilty pleasure is PT Sparks. I know those books are supposed to be for kids, but..."

  I keep my expression neutral. At the same time, paranoid alarm bells chime.

  Is Maddy testing me? Does she know? Could she?

  I choose not to go down that fearful road. Maddy knows nothing. I keep it breezy.

  "You like what you like. No need to be ashamed of anything. I've read some Sparks myself. What did you think of the last book?"

  "Let's see... which was that... the second one? Oh, I adored it. So sad, though, what happened to Mr Grumbles. Sparks had some front doing that."

  My right fist involuntarily tightens into a ball. I take a large sip of coffee.

  "Spoilers!" I tell her. "I haven't read any of them all the way through."

  Somehow, she manages to remain sexy, even while pulling an exaggeratedly apologetic face. "Ah. Sorry."

  "Don't worry. I'll probably never get around to it."

  "Too busy writing your own books, eh? Good for you."

  Maddy peers out through the window. Dawn is here, the field shrouded with mist.

  "Beautiful," she breathes. And sitting right there, as the light frames her, so is Maddy. In a way, she reminds me of Sylvie. A rather wistful, lost look about her.

  "So you're living alone over there?" I find myself asking. She shoots me a playful look. A "Who wants to know?" kind of look. I try to keep my face innocent (what the hell are you playing at, anyway? Remember the mission! The book, remember that? Let nothing and no-one distract you.)

  "Certainly am," she finally says. Her eyes zero in on me as she drains the cup. "Feels good right now."

  "Well..." I say, struggling to break eye contact, "just don't forget the burglar alarms."

  She nods and gently places her empty cup back on that saucer. "Right," she says, "I'd better let you get back to bed, if you can sleep after that coffee. Sorry again."

  "Not at all," I say. "I really appreciate the concern."

  I actually mean this. It's been a while since anyone gave a damn about me. Sylvie stopped, right after Jamie passed, which was unfair, considering who really caused his passing. And here's this woman, scurrying over to the house in darkness to check up on me. I can't deny it feels... nice.

  Nice. Wow. I'd thought nothing would feel nice ever again.

  I follow Maddy along the hallway, back to the door. I feel the need to repay her for giving that damn. God, maybe it's the caffeine.

  "Are you actually any good with burglar alarms?" I blurt. "If you like, I could nip over later and help. I need to write today, but... later, maybe..."

  Maddy's smile lights up my life, just a touch. A small lantern at the heart of fog.

  "That would be great! Thank you, I'm hopeless. And you can have that wine. Only fair."

  We pause in the open doorway, just long enough for me to hear the low ratcheting sound which emanates from behind me.

  "Hope I haven't babbled on for too long, Steve."

  I hardly hear. I'm too busy glancing back, guts like a washing machine on high spin, alarmed to see that smooth, spherical door-knob twisting from one side to the other.

  The Beast is testing it.

  "No," I tell Maddy, now dying to get rid of her. "You've been fine. Sleep well."

  Thump.

  Oh God. That was The Beast, throwing itself against the door.

  Thump, thump, again.

  A low rasp from behind the heavy wood makes me want to die, right there and then.

  Maddy has heard the noise too. She can't help peering past me, back along the hallway, her face etched with curiosity.

  "Just the wind," I say. "Bloody wind, drives me mad."

  Maddy glances around her. At the trees, perfectly still in the dawn light. Damn her intelligence.

  Finally, mercifully, she flashes a politely warm smile. One last sparkle of those eyes and she's walking away.

  I quickly close the door.

  I lock all the locks and prime the burglar alarm once again.

  Thump, thump. I watch as the door jolts in its frame.

  There are more thumps and increasingly fierce growls, as I stride towards it.

  Bunching up a fist, I bang repeatedly on the door, furious that The Beast had the temerity to free itself and ruin the first feeling of niceness I've had in three months.

  "Get back down those stairs," I order it. "There's no way out."

  A long, heavy pause.

  "Do it! Or no more food and water."

  I wait until I hear the creak-creak-creaks, as that ungodly thing slithers back down into the darkness.

  I stand with my back to the door, sucking oxygen.

  Maddy's perfume hangs in the hall. Sweet, heady, fresh.

  It's so good to have a part of her, however fleeting and transitory, with me in this wretched house.

  * * *

  It takes time to regain my bearings.

  I remind myself that it's Tuesday. By tomorrow morning, Jade Nexus And The Cathedral Of Screams needs to be e-mailed to Maurice. A few days later, it must be with the printers. And a few days after that, it will be with the world. This is all happening so very close to the wire.

  I'll need to stay here until the book is in shops. Who else would take care of The Beast?

  First things first. No more bad dreams. No more visits from women.

  Time to write.

  Planting myself in front of that desk, I think I can still smell her perfume. It must be on me. Feels like an invigorating good-luck charm.

  I write and write, immersing myself in Jade Nexus and her indomitable desire to save the world.

  The morning hurtles past like oncoming traffic. Time accelerates, my fingers a blur. I construct the all-new chapters and make sweeping changes throughout the novel, using my red-pen edits on the printed manuscript for reference.

  Midday sun blasts through the tall window, baking one side of my face. I'm dimly aware of birds singing, as if cheerleading. Everything feels good, positive, clear.

  Every once in a while, I sneak a look at the flat screen, monitoring the house. Camera One's feed gets priority, followed by brief glances at the rest.

  The house is calm, quiet, the bubble intact.

  The universe proves that it's capable of harmony as well as chaos.

  Even The Beast behaves.

  It's all a blur. Much later, somewhere in the evening, I find myself finishing Chapter Thirty-Two. I'm astonished as I retype those two amazing, final words: 'The End'.

  Can't believe I did it. Jade Nexus lives. The course of history has been changed.

  All I need to do now is read back through everything and make the necessary edits. One more read, to polish it up.

  A really bad time, then, for exhaustion to catch up with me.

  Sloth descends on my mind. My eyelids grow heavy.

  I've been working all day. Can't see or think straight. Perhaps I need some air. A stretch of the legs.

  Perhaps I could visit Maddy. Just for 10 minutes, yes?

  * * *

  It's a few moments before I notice him.

  Out here, the grass is wet, the air still heavy and moist. I hadn't even noticed rain during the afternoon.

  Must be about eight o'clock. The only sources of light out here come from my and Maddy's homes.

  Just the one light on in her cottage. It casts a warm, inviting glow out across her front porch.

  As I run my eyes across that porch... that's when I see the silhouette.

  The silhouette of a young man with a hunchback. Or rather, a rucksack. Long hair, now tied back in a
ridiculous ponytail.

  He's creeping out of Maddy's front door, carrying something.

  Christ. He's back. The Boy Man.

  That's him all right, no question. Same rucksack, same everything. Jesus Christ, has he attacked her? How else has he managed to steal from such a small home without her realising?

  My fatigue gives way to pulsing, pounding adrenaline. My teeth grind. There he is again – the very embodiment of reality, breaking into someone's bubble. The cowardly little bastard.

  Options cascade through my mind. Do I yell and scare him off? Creep up on him? Do nothing?

  The last one isn't an option.

  I watch him scurry off the porch, heading off onto the grass in the direction of the woods.

  I break into a run, the blood jetting through my veins.

  * * *

  The last time I ran this fast, it was down hospital corridors, Sylvie beside me.

  Signs flashed past us, as we darted between patients, nurses, doctors, orderlies, God-knows-who. Desperate to find the answer. To be told what, deep down, we already knew.

  A doctor, or someone official, stopped us, outside the operating theatre. He was an Indian guy in his 30s, unshaven. He had that face clipped on – the solemn, sympathetic mask reserved for conveying the worst possible news.

  I remember his hand on my shoulder, but I can't remember what he said to us. I just stared into his eyes, hopeless, helpless. I may have begged him to stop saying this and say something else. Like that would halt reality's relentless stampede.

  Surgeons began to file out of the theatre, resigned, sombre. Some had blood on their hands. Jamie's blood.

  As far as I was concerned, of course, only one entity truly had our son's blood on its hands.

  The Beast.

  * * *

  The Boy Man sees me too soon.

  I'm about halfway over to him when his head jerks in my direction. He's off like a rabbit, trebling his speed, heading for the woods.

  To me, it doesn't matter. I'm going to catch this fucker, even if it means running for days, weeks, months, forever.