Glimpses: The Best Short Stories of Rick Hautala

by Rick Hautala

  Holly stayed close behind her daddy, the fingers of one hand hooked protectively through his belt-loop. The dust bothered her, but she wriggled her nose back and forth, trying not to sneeze.

  Her daddy had moved five or six boxes when they heard the upstairs door open and then slam shut. Craning her head around, Holly watched the cellar stairs as a large shadow loomed in the doorway. She didn’t feel much relief when she recognized the scary oilman’s round, bulky silhouette.

  The stairs snapped and creaked loudly as the oilman came down, all the while whistling a nearly tuneless song. Holly’s eyes widened with fear as she watched him approach.

  “Got lucky. I had one in the truck.”

  The oilman sniffed as he raised his hand to show the small green cardboard box he was carrying. He skinned his snow-flecked woolen hat off and used it to wipe the moisture from his forehead. “Took a bit of lookin’ ‘round, but still, s’quicker ‘n if I had to drive all the way back to the shop.”

  “Uh-huh,” her daddy said. He seemed suddenly embarrassed to be caught pawing through the junk pile, so he stepped back. Holly aimed the flashlight beam down at the cement floor.

  “Snowing like a bastard now,” Phil said, “but it might be lettin’ up a bit. Flakes are getting bigger.”

  He knelt beside his toolbox and sorted through the tools until he found what he was looking for and then, with a screwdriver and a small wrench in hand, set to work.

  Still hanging onto her daddy’s belt-loop, Holly did her best to keep her daddy between her and the oilman, but she was curious and wanted to see what he was doing. She watched in silence as the oilman worked, all the while muttering curses under his breath whenever a screw or bolt was particularly unyielding.

  All the while, though, Holly kept shifting her gaze to the pile of rubbish by the wall. She wasn’t sure, but once or twice she was sure she heard faint scratching sounds masked by the clanging and banging sounds the oilman was making. She was tempted to shine the flashlight beam to see if she could catch any hint of motion behind the boxes but decided not to if only because she didn’t want her daddy to know how nervous she was. If he did, he might send her upstairs, for sure.

  After ten or fifteen minutes, Phil let out a long, satisfied sigh.

  “Here ‘tis,” he said, holding up what Holly guessed was the “intake valve” for her daddy to see. “This here’s your culprit.”

  He studied it from several angles before casually tossing it on top of the tools in his toolbox. Then he shook the new intake valve out of the box and, still whistling, set to work replacing it.

  Holly watched all of this with intense interest. She had no idea—and could care less—what the man was doing … just as long as the furnace started running before morning, and she and her daddy could go back upstairs. Her daddy had said something about wanting to make sure the water pipes didn’t freeze up, and Holly could just imagine the argument he and her momma would have if something like that ever happened.

  “Christ on a cross, it’s getting cold” her daddy whispered as he shivered and hugged himself while bouncing on his toes.

  “Daddy. You shouldn’t swear,” Holly said, tugging at his arm. She had heard worse—much worse when her momma and daddy argued—and she didn’t like it even when her friends at school swore to try to impress each other.

  Looking surprised that he had spoken aloud, her daddy glanced at her and then, scooching down, turned her around so she was facing him. His smile widened, looking for real, now, as he pulled her close and gave her a big hug. Holly hugged him back, feeling the warmth of his breath against her neck, but suddenly her body stiffened. An instant later, a deep trembling ran through her. Her daddy drew back and looked her in the eyes.

  “Baby …? What is it?” he asked.

  Holly knew her face must have gone as white as paper. Her eyes were wide and staring, and her mouth was hanging open. She was trying to say something but couldn’t get the words out. Her thin lips barely moved.

  “Holly?” her daddy said, his voice rising with concern.

  Very slowly, Holly raised her hand and pointed at something behind him. As her daddy turned, a cold prickling sensation ran up the back of Holly’s neck. Her hand holding the flashlight involuntarily squeezed the metal cylinder so hard her forearm started to ache. She whimpered … or maybe her daddy had made that noise. She wasn’t sure.

  “I … There’s something …hiding under that stuff,” she whispered, surprised that she could speak at all.

  She wanted so much to be brave. She knew that’s what her daddy expected of her, but the shifting shadow, darker than the shadows cast by the junk, fixed her attention. She couldn’t swallow. Her breath burned in her throat when, for just an instant, large, glowing eyes stared back at her from under the pile of boxes.

  “Daddy,” she said, her voice rising higher but still not much more than a ragged whisper.

  But her daddy didn’t turn to look at her. He straightened up and, taking the flashlight from her, moved slowly forward with the beam of light aimed directly at the spot where she had seen … whatever she had seen. The glow of the flashlight seemed much too weak to pierce the shadows. The only sounds in the cellar were the clanging and grunting noises the oilman was making as he worked, unaware that anything was happening and the distant hiss of snow against the cellar window.

  “I saw …” Holly said, but her daddy waved her to silence as he kept inching forward.

  “Yeah … I saw it too,” he said.

  Holly was hoping he’d tell her it had been nothing more than a mouse or a rat, but if the eyes she had seen were any indication, it would have to be the biggest darned rat in the world. She moved with her daddy closer to the pile of junk, not wanting to lose touch with him even though it meant getting closer to … whatever it was she had seen.

  An icy tightening weaved through her chest, and a voice inside her head told her to run … to get upstairs as fast as she could. But another voice told her that everything would be all right. She was safe. As long as she stayed with her daddy, nothing was going to hurt her.

  Leaning forward so he could see better, her daddy shined the flashlight into the gap between two of crushed boxes. Moving ever so slowly, he skidded one of the boxes to the side. It made a loud grating noise on the cement floor that set Holly’s teeth on edge. She realized that she was holding her breath and let it out slowly as her daddy, on his hands and knees, shined the light deeper into the gap.

  “What the hell could’ve done this,” he said.

  Holly knew that he was talking to himself; he would never swear talking to her.

  “Daddy?”

  He was shifting the stack of boxes to one side when the pile suddenly erupted with an explosion of activity. Holly screamed and staggered backwards as a mass of black, tangled shape leaped out from underneath the boxes. For an instant, the flashlight beam shined fully into the face of one of the … things. The cellar filled with its shrill cry as it raised its clawed hands to cover its face and cowered from the light.

  But the instant passed, and more creatures surged outward, rushing toward her daddy. Holly was so scared she didn’t see much of anything clearly. It was just a pile of writhing arms with claws, needle sharp teeth, and faces … small, dark, human-looking faces with huge, bulging eyes that glowed dull green in the dim light of the cellar. The squealing sounds they made reminded her of how her dog, Heidi, had sounded before she died the day she was hit by a passing car.

  Frozen with terror, Holly was still screaming when the oilman wheeled around, reacting to the sudden activity and her screams. The gap in the pile of junk shifted and widened as more and more of these … things—they certainly weren’t mice or rats—spilled out into the cellar. The high-pitched sounds they made hurt her ears.

  Her daddy started swinging the flashlight. One wild swing connected with something, and the lens of the flashlight shattered as one of the creatures he’d hit howled with pain. Then all Holly could hear was a wet ripping
sound as her daddy spun around on one foot, his legs buckling and his hands covering his face.

  Numb with shock, she watched as blood gushed between her daddy’s hands where his face used to be. In the dim light, the blood was as black as the oil smudge on the oilman’s face. The creatures—more than she could count—tore at her daddy, their claws raking across his back and his legs, shredding his clothes and ripping him apart. He spun around and staggered and tried to shout something to her, but his words were lost in a horrible, liquid gurgle as the claws laid his throat open.

  “What in the name of Christ?” the oilman shouted.

  He stumbled forward, blundering between Holly and the writhing mass of shrieking creatures that continued to boil out of the hole in the wall. As the gap in the junk pile widened, Holly caught a glimpse of a large hole in the cellar wall—a tunnel that was lost in darkness and obscured by the onrush of creatures.

  “Go on! … Run!... Get the Christ out of here!” the oilman yelled, and he pushed Holly away before the gibbering mass of creatures overwhelmed him.

  The cellar was filled with the raw, wet tearing sounds of shredded flesh as they piled onto him. Gouts of blood and gore flew through the air, splashing the walls and ceiling.

  Holly knew she should run. The voice inside her head was screaming at her to get out of the cellar, but she was frozen where she stood, unable to understand anything she was seeing.

  Her daddy was gone.

  She couldn’t believe it.

  Just seconds ago, he had been standing there, and then he just … disappeared, smothered by the savage, snarling creatures.

  Finally, when Holly saw the oilman collapse beneath the crushing weight of the creatures piling on top of him, she found the strength and will to try to turn and run for the stairs.

  They looked impossibly far away. The single light at the foot of the stairs cast a dull glow over the wood, making the steps look like something from a dream. Before she was halfway there, a dark shadow filled the doorway at the top of the stairs.

  “What in the hell is going on down here?” her momma shouted as she started down the stairs.

  Raising her hand and pointing toward the furnace, Holly tried to say something—anything, but her mind couldn’t process what she had seen, and the only sound she could manage was a faint blubbering that made absolutely no sense.

  Her mother stopped at the foot of the stairs. Her eyes widened, and her face went white when she saw Holly.

  “Honey …?” she said. “Are you? … Did he do this to you?”

  Holly had no idea what she meant until her momma ran her hand over her face and Holly saw the smeared blood on her fingers. She stuttered, gasping for breath, trying to tell her mother what she had seen, but none of it made any sense. It was impossible that her daddy and that big, fat oilman could have been covered by those … those things.

  Her momma was trembling visibly as she moved closer. She paused for a moment, then her gaze drifted past Holly as the sounds the creatures were making rose louder.

  “What in the name of God—”

  Holly pushed past her momma and started running up the stairs, sobbing so hard her chest hurt. Her legs felt weak, like they weren’t nearly strong enough to carry her all the way up the flight of stairs.

  “Run! … Momma! … Run!” she wailed, but her momma didn’t run. She didn’t move. All she could do was stare at the dark forms that gathered in the shadows of the stairwell.

  “It’s the light!” Holly shouted, feeling as though her voice was being ripped out of her. “They’re afraid of the light! Come on, Momma! We have to—”

  “Where’s your daddy?” her momma shrieked.

  Holly knew that she had to do what her daddy would expect her to do.

  She had to be brave.

  “We have to get away, Momma!” Holly shouted.

  She had stopped halfway up the stairs and wasn’t sure she had the strength to go the rest of the way. She’d never make it to the kitchen before those creatures got her.

  But she knew she had to.

  She had to shut the door and lock it, but she couldn’t leave her momma and daddy behind. She still didn’t believe her daddy was dead.

  “What the hell …?” her momma said as she took several quick steps backwards. She shaded her eyes from the overhead light and was about turning to leave when she tripped and fell—or was pulled—backwards, hitting the floor hard.

  “No!” Holly yelled when something flew out of the darkness and, with a loud pop, the light bulb at the foot of the stairs shattered. The thing that had broken the light bounced off the ceiling and landed on the first step. Holly saw that it was a boot—the oilman’s greasy, scuffed work boot. There was some tangled red stuff hanging out of the top and a shattered bone sticking up out of it.

  Blind with fear, Holly crawled on her hands and knees up the stairs and then collapsed on the kitchen floor. Hot tears streamed down her face, and she cringed, unable to scream as she listened to the sudden rise in the gibbering sounds the creatures were making down in the cellar.

  Any second now, Holly expected to feel razor-sharp claws slice into her back, but—somehow—she found the strength to get up, turn around, and look back down into the cellar. The creatures were swarming all over her mother, their angry snarls filling the air as their claws and fangs flashed in the darkness and ripped into her. Pieces of flesh and blood flew into the air. Her mother’s screams rose to a shrill note and then suddenly cut off with a gargling sound that was then replaced by the sounds of tearing flesh and cracking bones.

  Slowly, her body shaking terribly, Holly staggered to her feet. Burning gasps wracked her thin chest with every breath she took. A horrible taste filled the back of her throat, making her gag. She was afraid she was going to throw up. Her hands were shaking uncontrollably as she grasped the doorknob, preparing to slam the door shut.

  Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew that the thin door wasn’t anywhere near strong enough to stop these things, whatever they were. Their claws could rip through the wood as easily as they tore through flesh and bones, she knew, and she—just like her daddy and the oilman and her momma—was going to be killed … ripped to bloody pieces.

  Numb with shock and terror, Holly looked around, her mind totally blank as she tried to think of what to do next.

  She couldn’t run outside. All she had on was her slippers, pajamas, and her winter coat, but she needed hat and mittens in the storm. Besides, with several inches, maybe a foot of snow on the ground, she wouldn’t get very far before they caught up with her. The nearest neighbors—Mr. and Mrs. Holland—lived more than a quarter mile away. If her daddy and momma were really dead, there was no one around who could help her.

  Holly was convinced that, if she went upstairs and tried to hide, the creatures would find her and kill her. She knew where her daddy kept his hunting rifle, but she had no idea where he hid the bullets. Even if the gun was loaded, she didn’t know how to shoot and, besides, there were way too many of these things. She couldn’t stop them all.

  Tears filled her eyes, blurring her vision as she looked around the kitchen for something to use to defend herself. The creatures were moving around down in the darkness at the foot of the cellar stairs. When she glanced down, numerous pairs of dully glowing eyes stared up at her.

  Glancing over her shoulder at the kitchen window, Holly was surprised to notice that the snow had stopped. Above the trees across the road, the sky was brightening, turning from black to a dark, sooty gray as the dawn approached.

  They’re afraid of the light, she realized, remembering how one of the creatures had squealed when her daddy had shined the flashlight into its face.

  Would the daylight be bright enough to scare them away?

  Would there be enough light to keep these horrible things down in the cellar?

  She was barely aware of the whimpering sounds she was making as she slammed the door shut and leaned her back against it. Clinging with both hands to t
he doorknob, she pressed hard against the door.

  From down in the cellar, she heard the stairs creak and snap as the creatures started up them, coming after her. Their claws scraped against the wood, and the soft grunting and clicking sounds they made chilled her.

  And then the first body slammed against the cellar door. The impact was hard enough to jolt Holly, but she gritted her teeth and held on, pressing her back flat against the door.

  Will it hold? she wondered, her lower lip trembling as she fought back tears.

  She remembered her daddy saying something about how one of the things he liked about this house was that it was made of good, solid, old-fashioned oak, not the cheap kind of construction you find in most houses today.

  Is this door as solid as oak? she wondered.

  Will it be strong enough to hold until daylight comes, and the creatures would be afraid and have to return to the darkness?

  Holly’s tears burned her eyes as she stared out the kitchen window at the gradually brightening sky. The storm clouds were blowing away fast, now that the storm had passed. The dark gray of dawn was steadily lightening to a faint tint of blue. Her heart was hammering in her chest, making her neck throb.

  The door, no more than an inch thick, she guessed, was all that separated her from those terrible creatures with their ugly faces and their claws.

  From the other side of the door, she could hear the steady rasping sound as they scarped and tore at the wood.

  Will it hold?

  Pressure was building up on the other side. She could feel it as more and more creatures came up the stairs and pressed their weight against the door, clawing at the wood … pounding on it. Every now and then the doorknob would jiggle in her hand, but they didn’t try to force it. Holly guessed they were just dumb animals, too stupid to know how to use a doorknob. Kicking off her slippers so she could get better traction on the cold linoleum floor, she braced her shaking legs and leaned as hard as she could against the door. The frantic scratching sounds and the squealing from the other side got steadily louder.