The Key to Everything

by Alex Kimmell

  He stops. The wind stops. The record stops. The rocks fall, making dry cracks as they hit the floor. Silently, he moves back over to the body still holding its lifeless arm around the now-silent speaker. He pushes up his sleeve and dips his right hand into the remains of the woman’s neck. He pushes dramatically slowly, until he is in her down to his elbow. He closes his eyes and shifts around, apparently trying to find something. You can see the bulges pop out in her skin where his hand moves organs and bones out of his way. He stops. His eyes open with a smile, and he pulls his hand out.

  “Here it is.” Boot Man holds something metallic tightly in his meat-covered fingers. He glides across the room to you, stopping toe-to-toe. His left hand grabs the back of your head gently. His right hand opens, palm up, between your two faces, revealing a small padlock. He blows on it sharply, pushing a small grey piece of some internal organ down to the floor.

  When the metal first touches the hole in your belly, all you can feel is pressure. With one firm shove, the lock enters deep into you. His hand pulls back, letting your muscles close around it. Now that it’s in you, it’s part of you. You can feel the shape. You can feel the cold metal as it warms to the tissue, embracing it. And you want it out.

  Feeling has all but vanished from your torn throat. Your ears remind you that you are still screaming. All that you are now is a pitiful and hoarse sound, slowly disappearing in the dark folding around you.

  Before you are lost completely, you hear Boot Man giggle with the voice of a child. Thousands of tiny paws climb up your legs. Their claws dig into your skin, making little holes as they rise higher. Up they climb, until you feel them cover you completely from head to toe, leaving only the hole in your belly untouched. He blows out the candle, and you are gone.

  -35-

  Auden: Arrhythmic Wounds

  You are the key…

  You are the key…

  You are the key…

  Like a mantra, it repeats over and over in your head.

  You are the key…

  You lean back and to the left against the chain digging further into your ripped skin. There has been no food or water for some time now. If Boot Man is still in the room, your eyes can’t find him hiding in any of the shadows. Needle skipping over and over as the Victrola continues to spin. The static hiss and pop provide an arrhythmic accompaniment to the voices in your head.

  You are the key…

  Arching forward, you pry the chain out from the indentations in your waist. The wounds don’t feel like they will ever heal. Given no time to scab over, you try to rotate where you let yourself lean when you can’t stand straight any longer. You can’t feel your feet anymore. They walked away from you a long time ago.

  You are the key…

  Looking down, the hole in your belly isn’t bleeding. The edges of the cut are clean and smooth. You can see the muscles tensing and releasing with every breath. A dark reddish-brown color coats the curves and folds inside of the hole. You can’t bring yourself to touch it.

  You are the key…

  You feel a rustling behind you. Something takes hold of the chain, gently pulling it from the wounds around your waist and lowering it to the ground. You fall to the side into an embrace of too many cold arms. There is no sensation of touch when they lift you. Your eyes burn, unfocused from the darkness and too much exposure to the air. The arms that you can see through the haze are black metallic. Smooth. Frictionless. Obsidian seas waxing and waning from the pull of some unseen moon. Washing you clean and dressing your wounds. Warm and soft white cotton trousers cover your legs. A knitted white sweater rests unbuttoned atop the fresh bandages.

  You are the key…

  The white room has a soft feather bed. Thick wool blankets cover you from waist to feet. In the center of the room sits an unfinished oak writing desk with a blank stack of paper and a white sharpened pencil resting on top. An ornately carved frame outlining nothing but empty black space hangs on the wall across from you.

  You are the key…

  -36-

  Auden: Falling

  A gentle wind rustles the soft sheet under your chin. It feels like you haven’t opened your eyes yet, because all you see is white. There are no defined edges between the walls, ceiling or floor. A vast, empty whiteness, so crisp and bright that you have to press your palms against your face to shield your eyes from glare. In time, your eyes adjust, and you turn on the bed to place your feet on the floor. Neither warm nor cold, you can scarcely determine when your skin actually makes contact with the ground.

  Your eyes scan the room and its bare contents. The desk stands in the exact center of the floor. The chair is turned toward you in a welcoming position, inviting you to come and sit. There is no movement, but something catches your eye and begs you to look over at the black space hanging on the wall. There is no reflection of light here, yet it’s comforting to look into the blackness. You move closer to it, not feeling the floor beneath your feet or your muscles moving at all. Your fingers trace the ornate curves of the frame and find beveled slots to slide into. It’s a welcome embrace that gives your hands a comfortable, warm feeling, like holding a lover’s hand.

  You move your face closer to the emptiness. Close enough that the tip of your nose hovers molecules away from touching the dark canvas. You hear a scratching sound behind you and quickly turn. A pencil rolls from the top of the stack of paper. On the desktop, the white wooden instrument begins to spin in slow circles, creating an almost inaudible whooshing sound. Your eyes follow the lead tip as it spins around… around… around… The sound of water sloshing in a metal bucket comes from the picture frame, but your eyes are locked onto the pencil, watching it turn around… around… around… Slowly, the spinning stops. The eraser points directly at you.

  Silence now. You don’t breathe. You don’t move. The pencil starts to wobble in place, rocking back and forth on the beveled edge of its side. The wobble increases and builds to a blurred vibration. The pencil almost disappears, it is moving so fast now. In an instant, the vibrations stop, as it rolls from the desktop and falls toward the floor. You watch, breathless, waiting for it to land. Your heart stops, instinctively knowing that when it hits, everything will shatter, and you will disappear along with everything else in this tiny universe. You watch the pencil reach the floor and fall through, deep beyond the white space. You watch as it continues to fall impossibly farther and farther, deep into the enormity of this white emptiness. Falling and falling, growing smaller and smaller, picking up momentum. A strange new terminal velocity beyond any law of physics in Einstein’s or Hawking’s wildest dreams. It must have fallen miles away now, but you can still see every detail of the white edges and metal clamp holding the eraser to the wood. Your head turns back to the comfort inside the frame. Your hands gripping firmly, but not too tightly, pull you in closer and closer. You hear the clatter of wood slapping into a solid floor. At the same instant your face pushes into the blackness in front of you, the floor falls away from your feet.

  -37-

  Emily: Knock Knock

  Abram opens the book and looks for something. Emily sits beside him on the living room couch, wrapped in the quilt her grandmother made before she died. She was terrified of the man at first, but he knew so much about the book. The genuine sorrow in his eyes calmed her suspicions. There were so many questions and doubts, but when he told her that he could help bring Auden back home, every ounce of her flesh wanted to believe him.

  His knotted and scarred fingers stopped flipping and pointed to a spot in the center of an open page. He looked up from the text, but his eyes never quite met Emily’s, stopping just next to her face. She wasn’t quite sure if it was shyness that kept him from looking at her, or maybe even a sense of shame. He opened his palm and choked out, “These are your husband’s pages.”

  Emily darted her eyes between the open book and Abram. His hand slid the book closer to her on the table, and he nodded with friendly encouragement. Emily shook the blurrine
ss from her head and brushed back a loose strand of hair that fell in front of her face, tucking it behind her ear.

  The text was smudged and almost unreadable. Dark red fingerprints covered some of the letters. Others were smeared from something spilled on the parchment a long time ago. The words that remained were either written in a language she wasn’t familiar with or made no sense at all.

  Emily closed her eyes. A warmth rose up into her flattened palm from the paper. She reached out for Auden. In an indescribable way, she knew he occupied this space. This is where he had been. She turned to Abram, and he smiled reassuringly back at her. He took her hand and nodded.

  “He’s not in there anymore.” His voice was deep and kind. “I’m sorry.”

  “Wh… where is he?”

  “I think that he’s with Dedra.” Abram closed the book gently and looked down to the floor. “I saw her with him...”

  “…in the mirror.” She looked back up the stairs and shuddered at the thought.

  Her feet fought against the movement, but she was able to coax them over to the bottom of the stairs. “What about the boys?”

  “I don’t know.” Abram watched with a feeling of helplessness as Emily leaned her hand on the wall. Her body trembled with heavy sobs. Words of comfort escaped him then. Sadly, he let the room fill with her stuttering short breaths, trying to quiet her own cries.

  Without thinking, he started scratching at the skin healing over his tattoo. The front door opened, and a rotund gentleman stood with a look of deep concern on his white-bearded face. He must have been a friend or family member. Abram didn’t recognize him at all, but as soon as Emily saw the man, she ran to him and buried her weeping face into his shoulder. Abram stood as the man patted her softly on the back and rocked her as if she were an infant in his arms.

  Emily lifted her head at the sound of the man clearing his throat, and they both turned to look back at Abram. His white moustache lifted up slightly into a smile, with a bit of hesitation. Emily wiped her face on her forearm. She didn’t seem like the type of woman who would often express emotion this openly. She quickly fussed at her hair and attempted to install a brave face that would have fooled anyone who didn’t have the gift of sight.

  Her head cocked at an angle to the side when she smiled. “This is Sgt. Harmon from across the street.” The man extended his right hand out but kept close to Emily. A welcoming gesture held in protective armor. “And this… this is Abram.”

  “Hello.”

  “Good afternoon.” A thickness in the air built that was almost physically painful. Abram noticed that the man’s hand was still held out, waiting to be taken. Needles pierced into his skin as a warning. He couldn’t bring himself to touch the man. There was something indescribably wrong about him.

  The two men stood there, unblinking. Emily felt the tension, too, and rather than let it continue building, she broke the uncomfortable silence. “Sorry, Sgt. Harmon. Can I offer you something to drink?”

  “No.” Finally lowering his hand. “I just came to check in and see how my new neighbors were doing.” Sgt. Harmon and Abram each pretended to relax. Their hackles were raised, however, and Abram’s gut told him to keep a distance from this person.

  “I’m going to pour myself a glass of water.” The nervousness in Emily’s voice was apparent. “Is it just me, or did it get really dry in here all of a sudden?”

  Abram kept his eyes on the man, not bothering to hide his mistrust. Sgt. Harmon smiled, and they both looked each other up and down. “No thanks, Emily, really. I’m fine.”

  “So where do you know the Quiltons from?” There was a bite to the question. Obvious this man did not want Abram here.

  “We’ve only just met.”

  Sgt. Harmon’s eyes widened at the sight of Abram’s wrist. “That’s an interesting tattoo you have there.” He moved faster than a man of his bulk should have been able to. So fast, in fact, that Abram didn’t even notice the man had even moved before he took hold of his arm. “It looks pretty new. Aren’t you a little old for this kind of thing? Any piercings I should know about?”

  Abram tried to pull his arm away, but the man’s cold fingers gripped like steel. An odd chill rushed across Abram’s skin. His eyes closed to a burning white behind his eyelids. He didn’t hear the words so much as feel them. Pain shot through his chest and into his belly. Fighting the pressure, he held his bowels tight, straining to remain upright. The sound of breaking glass brought him back.

  He watched the scene unfold from some faraway place. The man began to dig his fingers into Abram’s wrist with one hand. His other hand reached out to catch Emily by the throat, knocking the glass of water from her hand. He nonchalantly threw her into the fireplace.

  “Now this… this is something, here.” His long fingers melted together. The bones in his hand twisted and cracked. His skin darkened, taking on a silvery-brownish tint. Loud snapping sounds punched Abram in the gut. Angles appeared as the former fingers tried to twist into the correct shape.

  The man gritted his teeth, sweating. “What is it?” Abram felt a burning deep inside, stretching from the extended limb to the center of his chest. It tore at him more ephemerally than physically. “What is it?” The man grunted again, trying to make his key/hand fit.

  Abram pulled at a hollow place deep inside his stomach. He clawed and scraped and dragged for something solid and strong to lash out with. The man was close to finding a way in. Abram couldn’t allow that to happen. He knew it. Closing his eyes, trying to drown out the burning ripping tearing shredding in his arm, he stretched in. The whiteness behind his eyes took on a dark orange tint. Pressing deeper down, the orange started glowing into a deeply cold redness. His limbs went numb. He no longer felt his assailant stabbing cutting for the entryway.

  He opened his eyes and was blinded by clean pure white.

  -38-

  Emily: Who's There?

  Emily heard screaming. It sounded far away. Down a hallway or deep in some old forgotten holler, overgrown with moss, strewn with the remains of animals. Then there was a deep thud, and something fell on top of her. There was a muffled struggle, pushing her deeper into the floor. She tried to pull herself out. Feet kicked and nails clawed against hardwood floors, elbows tried to bend, knees pushed. Then the combatants grunted and rolled off her.

  Abram pulled at Sgt. Harmon’s deformed hand, smashing it into the living room table. Droplets and sticky strings of shimmering black liquid flew from the misshapen appendage with every jerk and impact. A bright white light blasted out from Abram’s forearm, making her shield her eyes every time it swung her way.

  There was no way to help. She could jump in and grab onto one of them to change the odds. But which was the right one? Some of the black liquid flew through the air and splattered on the wall directly above her left shoulder. She flinched at the sour odor burning her nose. Abram kicked out with his knee, driving it into the white-bearded man’s crotch. Instead of crumpling into a pitiful ball of helplessness, Sgt. Harmon’s mouth twisted into an eerie grin, snapping its teeth molecules away from the tip of Abram’s nose.

  Emily covered her nose, rolling away from the now-smoldering splotch on the wall. Blood dripped from the sores burned into her nasal lining from the acrid black fluid. Rushing past the scramble of nails and teeth in front of the couch, she headed for the kitchen. At the entryway, she caught a glimpse of Abram looking at her pleadingly. She didn’t stop to acknowledge him. The knife slid crisply out of its slot in the wooden storage box. The fine craftsmanship of its edge was normally used to slice steak that Auden cooked on the grill. His image ran through her head, making the breath catch for an instant inside her chest.

  A loud crash, followed by deep, resonant laughter, started her engine running again. The rest was all a blur, driven purely by instinct. Couch beneath her feet white blinding light teeth biting into skin blood blood blood hard-boned knuckles crunching into solar plexus sole of shoe stomping down on ear hair pulled out from root
screams man woman torn blouse buttons flipping through air deep voice “Where is he?” tongue licking eyeball burning itching fire acid pain blade pressed into Adam’s apple sharp metal digging through layer after layer of skin vein splitting in half leaking spraying red black hot wind gurgle smell of death “Must…let…in” underwater fingers claw over face back of head bounce off bricks above fireplace white red black crashing glass breeze blows curtains heavy breathing crying sobbing moaning…

  silence.

  * * *

  Abram stands on legs barely there in the room with him. His weight shifts in all directions, trying to find balance in the center. He looks over at white smoke coming from the black splatter on the wall. Covering his mouth and nose, he turns to Emily. Her eyes are closed, and for a moment he thinks that she is gone. As he takes a tentative step closer, her chest moves, and she opens her mouth, breathing out.

  Looking down at the body covered with Rorschach patterns of black, Abram lifts the man’s deformed hand to get a closer look. Being careful not to get too close to his tattoo, he turns the grotesque shape around. No longer resembling a hand, its shape and angles were beginning to suggest the form of a key.

  “Thank God.” The whisper comes along with his realization that it was the wrong key.

  Suddenly the key-hand moves. The angles start coming undone. Stubs of fingers split apart, becoming individual digits, knuckles bulging, bending into a fist. Abram grabs the man by the wrist and drags him to the door.

  Shallow, short moans come from near the man’s face, and Abram isn’t quite sure if they are real or his imagination. Nonetheless, he moves faster, reaching for the doorknob.

  “Shit.” He pulls the door in, hitting the man on the head. He kicks at the broad shoulder blade, pushing the body backward with his leg just far enough to get the door open. With both hands, he takes the man’s arms and pulls as hard as he can to get him over the threshold into the bright sunlight outside. Once through, Abram kicks the man’s boots just past the weather stripping, slams the door, and slides the deadbolt home.