by Brian Keene
Then a massive hand grabbed his hair and jerked him backward, and all Brett saw was the ceiling. He tried to scream, but only managed a gobbling choke as Noigel jerked his head back even farther. Brett felt like he was being bent over backward. Then he got a good look at the giant’s face. The hulk’s mouth was open, smiling, and bloody saliva dripped onto Brett’s face and ran into his eyes. Noigel’s breath was like an open sewer. His bald, misshapen head seemed to be surrounded by a halo of kitchen light, and his round, black eyes glittered with malicious glee. It leaned closer, drooling more foul saliva into Brett’s gaping mouth. Instinct took over and Brett’s hand came up in a fast arc to block the flow. He realized as it rose just how foolish he had been, but it was too late to stop the reflective action. Brett’s wounded, bloodied hand slammed into Noigel’s face, leaving trails of crimson on the waxy, pocked flesh. He felt his stumps bend backward. Pain jolted through him, electrifying his raw nerve endings. Grunting, Noigel jerked him off his feet with one hand and swung him through the air by his hair, turning round and round like a top.
Then the creature let go, and Brett felt himself sailing through the darkness.
Mercifully, his vision—already weak from the surrounding darkness—completely failed before he slammed into the basement wall, and although he felt his bones snap and heard his skull crack apart, he did not see the red explosion his impact made or hear the wet sounds of his brains splattering across the stone blocks.
TWELVE
Leo stood suddenly, hitched up his sagging pants, and addressed the others.
“Fuck this shit. I’m tired of just waiting around for something to happen. I’m going in there.”
His friends gaped at him. Mr. Watkins seemed bemused. He exhaled smoke and stared at Leo, as if unconvinced of his sincerity and waiting to see what Leo would do next.
“For real,” Leo said. “I ain’t playing. This is bullshit. What Mr. Watkins was saying? That shit is true. People down here don’t give a fuck anymore, and that’s a big part of the problem. And the cops don’t give a shit either. It’s our neighborhood. We need to deal with it. If not us, then who?”
“Go ahead,” Markus said. “My ass is staying right here and waiting for five-oh.”
Leo shook his head, disgusted. “Let me ask you something. How would you feel if it was us in there? How about if we took a drive out to Amish Country or some shit, and our car broke down, and we were trapped inside some old barn? Wouldn’t you want someone to help us?”
“Yeah,” Jamal said, “but they called us niggers, yo. I say the hell with them. They can rot, for all I care. You know what I’m saying?”
“True that,” Chris agreed. “All we were trying to do was help them.”
Dookie and Markus nodded.
Leo impatiently waved them off. “Man, they were scared. And it was only the one guy who called us that—the Poindexter-looking motherfucker. The others just ran away. In hindsight, I can’t say as I blame them. We were pretty pissed off after he called us that.”
“So why you want to help them?” Dookie asked.
“Because it’s the right thing to do. Don’t you get tired of people assuming we must be drug dealers, just because of where we live or how we look or dress? Don’t you get tired of not doing anything to change our situation? This is a chance to make a change—real change, not that bullshit the politicians go on and on about.”
Dookie and the others seemed to mull over Leo’s sentiments, but Markus was adamant. “I ain’t going inside no haunted house,” he said. “No way. Fuck that noise.”
“How do you know it’s haunted?” Leo challenged him. “You ever see a ghost peeking out the window at you? Ever hear chains rattling around and shit? No? Neither have I. And neither has anyone else that we know of. It’s like Mr. Watkins said—nobody really knows what happens in there. All we know is that we’re told to stay away from it because people who go inside don’t come back out. And usually it’s the crackheads or dope slingers or homeless people, and who gives a fuck if they disappear, right? Except that this time, it ain’t them. It’s somebody who will be missed. At the very least, when word gets out that those white kids went missing and the last folks they encountered was us, what do you think is going to happen? We’re going to be the number-one suspects.”
Markus stared at the cracked pavement, frowning with concentration. Leo could tell that his friend was thinking it over.
“Maybe you’re right,” Chris admitted, “but that don’t change the fact that we still don’t know what’s in there. Sure, maybe it ain’t ghosts, but what if it’s some serial killer motherfucker, like that crazy dude killing people on Interstate 83? You see him on the news?”
“Can’t be him,” Jamal said. “Interstate 83 is a long way away. Down near Maryland and shit.”
Markus glanced up and appeared confused. “I thought 83 was the one that runs up through State College?”
“No,” Jamal corrected, “That’s 81. Interstate 83 runs from Baltimore up to Harrisburg.”
“Would y’all shut up?” Leo glared at them. “We’re getting sidetracked here. The point is, you’re right, Chris. We don’t know what’s in there. And we should. This is where we live. It’s our responsibility to find out. Who knows? Maybe it’s something as simple as a rotten floor, and folks have been falling through over the years. Or maybe it is a serial killer. Fact is, we won’t ever know unless we go look. But first we need guns.”
Mr. Watkins’s eyes grew wide. His mouth fell open and his cigarette tumbled to the ground.
“Guns,” he sputtered. “What the hell do you need guns for?”
“If I’m going in there,” Leo said, his tone the same as he used when talking to his little brother, “then I’m going in strapped. I’m not stupid. If the cops ever bother to show up, you think they’re going to walk inside that house without their guns?”
Sighing, Mr. Watkins pulled out his crumpled pack of cigarettes, shook another one out, stuck it in his mouth, and then flicked his lighter. A moment later, he spat it out.
“Goddamn it, I lit the filter. Look what you made me do, talking all this nonsense about guns.”
Leo and the others said nothing. They simply watched him, waiting.
Mr. Watkins shook his head. “Listen. Let me call 911 one more time first. This time, I’ll report it as a fire. That should get them down here quicker.”
Leo eyed him doubtfully. Now that he’d decided on a course of action, he was eager to proceed. “How long’s that gonna take?”
Before Mr. Watkins could answer, Dookie interrupted. “Yo, I got it! Check this shit out. I know how to get them down here. We set the fucking house on fire. They’ll come in a hurry if we do that.”
Leo, Chris, Jamal, and Mr. Watkins stared at him without speaking. Markus reached out and slapped him hard on the back of his head.
“Owwww . . .” Pouting, Dookie rubbed his head and glared at his friend. “What the hell did you do that for?”
Markus slapped him again, softer this time. “We can’t set the house on fire, you stupid motherfucker. There’s people trapped inside of it. How we supposed to save them if the fucking thing is burning down?”
“Oh, yeah. Guess I didn’t think of that.”
“No shit.”
“You boys just wait here a minute.” Groaning, Mr. Watkins stood up and brushed off his pants. He went inside his house, and they waited. Leo heard him talking with Mrs. Watkins, but he couldn’t make out what they were saying. Judging by their tones, they were arguing about something. Then it grew quiet. A black Nissan with tinted windows and purple running lights rolled slowly past. The subwoofer in the car’s trunk rattled the windows of the nearby homes. It made a slow turn at the corner. The boys watched it fade from sight.
“You know what?” Dookie’s voice was low and thoughtful, and he looked up at the sky as he spoke. “I don’t want to die here.”
“We ain’t gonna die in there,” Jamal said. “We’re just gonna look around. Hel
p those white kids out.”
“No, I don’t mean in there. I mean here, on this block. I don’t want to get all old and shit and never have gone farther than North Philly. Mr. Watkins was talking about the suburbs and stuff. I want to see it. Maybe it ain’t no different than here, but I want to find out for myself.”
None of the boys responded. Secretly, Leo harbored the same desires. He was positive that the rest of his friends did, as well. The farthest from home he’d ever been was six years ago, when he was ten. His mother had signed him and his brother up for a summer program, where inner-city kids went to live with a family out in the country for two weeks. Their adopted family, the Gracos, had been all right. Mr. Graco wrote comic books for a living, and his wife, Mara, was an insurance agent. They had two kids—Dane, who was Leo’s age, and Doug, who was about the age of Leo’s little brother. The Gracos lived in a big farm house with an even bigger yard, and lots of woods and fields around. It had scared Leo at first. He’d felt uncomfortable there, and although he had a good time that summer, he’d been grateful to return home. But sometimes, late at night, Leo would lie in bed and listen to the sounds of the city and think about that place so far out in the country and how quiet it had been. He wondered what it would be like to live there all the time, to not go through life scared, to not have to be constantly aware of his surroundings or worried about his loved ones. Of course, even people like the Graco family probably had things they were scared of. There were monsters everywhere. All you had to do was turn over their rocks, and you’d find them, hiding in the dark.
A few minutes later, Mr. Watkins emerged from his house. He had a plastic bag in one hand.
“Well?” Leo asked. “Did you call them again?”
He nodded. “Yeah, I called them alright.”
“What did they say?”
“They didn’t say anything. I couldn’t get through. All I got was a goddamned message telling me that all circuits were busy and I should try my call again later.”
“That’s fucked up,” Jamal said.
“Yes,” Mr. Watkins agreed, “it is.”
Leo turned away from them and faced the house at the end of the block. “Well, you all can do whatever you want. I’m going in.”
“We got to get some guns first,” Chris reminded him.
“Want to try Cheeto or Tawan? They can probably hook us up. Or maybe Terrell?”
“We’ll go see Terrell,” Leo said.
“You boys ain’t doing any such thing,” Mr. Watkins stepped down onto the sidewalk. The plastic bag rustled as he reached inside of it. Grinning, he pulled out his pistol. Then he handed the bag to Leo, who glanced inside and saw several flashlights.
“I’m going in there with you,” Mr. Watkins said, “and I’ll go first, because I’ve got the gun. The rest of you can carry the flashlights.”
“Well, shit,” Leo said, grinning, “why didn’t you say so?”
THIRTEEN
“Go,” Javier shouted. “Fucking run!”
Heather’s breath caught in her throat as Javier punched the nearest attacker in the jaw. He shook his hand, wincing in pain, as the creature crumpled to the floor. Javier leaped over the writhing beast and yelled, urging the girls to follow him. He lashed at another creature with the belt, trying to clear a path, and then dashed into the darkness. Heather ran, desperate to keep up with him. Javier seemed to have snapped. That cool self-assuredness that he’d displayed so far was gone. His actions now were frantic. Manic. He shouted again, this time in Spanish.
He’s afraid, she thought. But that doesn’t mean he’s going to abandon us down here. He wouldn’t dare. He loves me. He wouldn’t leave me behind. He wouldn’t leave Kerri, either.
Heather bit her lip. Despite the immediate danger looming on all sides, she couldn’t help wondering whether Javier had feelings for Kerri. They’d spent time alone together in the aftermath of Tyler and Stephanie’s death, while Heather was hiding. And when they’d all found each other again, Kerri and Javier seemed closer somehow. Was it her imagination, or had something happened?
Javier shouted a third time, but Heather couldn’t understand what he said. She couldn’t even tell whether it was English or Spanish. She could barely hear him over the enraged and excited chatter of their foes. The bizarre howls had been replaced with guttural growls and grunts. Most surprisingly, a few of them spoke. The things they said were somehow more terrifying than their appearance. They promised the teens a multitude of mutilation and torture and deviancy once they’d caught them.
Heather had no intention of letting that happen. She ran, not glancing over her shoulder to see if Kerri and Brett were following. It sounded like there was a struggle taking place behind her. She heard Brett screaming. Then his cries turned to one long, extended wail that was suddenly cut short. Heather plunged ahead, narrowly avoiding the grasping hands of one of the freaks.
Long, ragged nails scratched at her skin, slicing into her shoulder. She shrugged them away and kept running.
“Get them,” one of the cellar’s inhabitants screeched.
“Don’t let them get away.”
“They’re fast,” another called. “My legs aren’t as long as theirs.”
“You won’t have any fucking legs if you let them get away, ’cause we’ll eat those instead.”
An impossibly obese hulk loomed over her, wheezing with exertion. Heather dodged it easily, but not before glimpsing two pale, ponderous breasts swaying amidst mounds of sweaty, jiggling flesh. It was female—and naked. The woman reached for her with cold, clammy hands. Her skin had the consistency of wax. Heather shuddered in revulsion.
“Javier? Where are you?”
In response, something tittered in the darkness.
“Here,” he called, his voice distant. “Heather?”
Another mutant lunged for her as she followed Javier’s voice, realizing too late that she was fleeing right into the midst of their attackers. Heather was out of range of the kitchen lights now, but the thing was close enough that she could make out some of its features, even in the darkness. It had a face and snout like a baboon, and its short, squat body was mostly hairless. Its eyes were definitely human, and they smoldered with rage. She darted to the left, out of reach of her pursuer, and then dodged to the right again. Her heart pounded in her chest. She breathed through her mouth to avoid the stench roiling off the creatures.
She thought she heard the belt crack up ahead, followed by a cry of pain. Heather ran in that direction, determined not to get separated from Javier. The ground was uneven and sloped downward. Even in the darkness, she could feel the descent increasing drastically. She winced as what felt like sharp, jagged stones poked her bare feet, but she shoved past the pain, not daring to slow down.
The sounds slowly dimmed, then ceased, but she kept running. She had no way of knowing whether she was still being chased. This part of the basement—if she was even still in the basement—was pitch-black, and she didn’t want to risk stopping to pull out her cell phone. She heard no footsteps behind her, but that didn’t mean that they weren’t still there, lurking, waiting to attack. Without stopping, Heather instinctively glanced over her shoulder, forgetting that she probably wouldn’t be able to see anything anyway. As she did, her foot came down in something wet, and she slipped, bouncing off a wall. Her hands shot out to break her fall, and sharp rocks sliced into her palms. Sitting up, Heather gasped, but managed not to scream.
She crouched there, cradling her hands in her lap. She could feel her blood trickling down her palms but couldn’t tell how bad the cuts were. She wondered if her feet were lacerated as well. They hurt, but she didn’t know whether that was from the earlier wounds or brand-new ones. She didn’t know how badly she was injured. She didn’t know where her boyfriend or her friends were. She didn’t know where her pursuers were. All Heather knew was that she was suddenly alone in the darkness.
“Javier?” she whispered, her voice quavering. “Kerri?”
Ther
e was no answer from either. Heather stood and listened, but the only sound she heard was her own harsh breathing. If Javier or Kerri were still nearby, then they were unwilling—or unable—to respond. She glanced around in the darkness, no longer sure of where she was or which direction she’d come from. She’d lost her bearings during her tumble. Far off in the distance, she spotted a tiny dot of illumination, and after a moment, she determined that it was the kitchen lights shining down into the basement. But it was so far away—as if the cellar were larger than the house above it. Maybe it was. Or maybe she’d run into a cave attached to the basement or something. She couldn’t tell. Her hands began to burn. Deciding to risk it, Heather fumbled for her cell phone, intent on at least examining her wounds. She patted her pockets, felt the reassuring bulge of the tiny cell phone, but then decided against using it, after all. What if one of the killers heard it or saw it? Darkness and silence were preferable to that.
“Kerri?”
Nothing.
Pouting, Heather tried to figure out what to do next. She couldn’t stay where she was, no matter how strong her urge was to curl up into a ball and just hide herself away. In the darkness, she had nothing but her hands and her sense of hearing to guide her. Both seemed useless right now. She couldn’t risk using the phone, so what did that leave her with? She patted the floor, wincing in pain as her cuts brushed against the rough surface. Eventually she located the wall and pressed herself against it. The cold, clammy surface felt good against her skin. She rested there, catching her breath and weighing her options again. Javier and Kerri had to be somewhere up ahead. They had to be, because the alternative was far too terrifying to consider. What if Javier had left her here? What if Kerri had wound up with Brett when whatever had happened to him back there in the darkness—something dreadful, by the sound of it—occurred?
