After considering his options, he squeezed himself into the space beneath the sink and fell asleep, waking immediately at the first sound of the door at the top of the stairs being unlocked.
Through slitted eyelids he watched the man walk over to the bed, then straighten suddenly and look around. Terrified of what he’d do to him, Andrew closed his eyes and willed himself to relax. He heard the man walk over, pause, then chuckle to himself before turning and going back upstairs.
He heard the door close, but still he didn’t move. He strained his ears for the sound of the deadbolt sliding into its socket, but he didn’t hear it. All he could discern for the next several minutes was the rapid beating of his heart pounding inside his head.
Finally, after an eternity of barely breathing, he sucked in a huge breath and crawled out.
† † †
Three days.
That’s how long it usually took for the sacrifices to ripen. Three days for the fear to infuse every pore, to blanch the skin, to render the spirit like wax, soft and malleable. Three days, and then the soul would be willing, the flesh properly cured.
For the first day, David did not venture into the basement. He didn’t even look at the basement door. He pretended it wasn’t even there. And when the police had come to visit him that first afternoon, he’d invited them in. They had sat at his kitchen table drinking coffee while the basement door stood closed not six feet away, a calendar tacked to it and the markings of mundane appointments and reminders scratched over its surface. One officer had stood up and circled the table with his cup while his partner spoke, and he’d glanced at the calendar before his eyes passed over it, as if the ordinariness of the Norman Rockwell scene on it had rendered the door invisible.
David frowned and nodded at all the appropriate places. It wasn’t the first time they’d visited. In fact, it was the fourth, but it was as if the town had no long term memory.
He made sure he looked upset. He expressed hope that the child would be found. “I’m a crossing guard there in the afternoons,” he’d said, knowledge the police already had. “It would kill me to think of any of those children harmed in any way.”
The policemen assured him they were asking anyone who might’ve seen anything. They thanked him for his time and made to go. They each gave him their cards and David had stared at them while the officers stood there on the porch mumbling the standard platitudes: “If you see anything…hear anything…don’t hesitate to contact us.” And David had promised he would. Officers Williams and Bartlett. He’d wanted to memorize the names, but he’d struggled with such details all his life and, scarcely an hour later when he arrived at the school to fulfill his duties, he found he’d already forgotten them.
That evening, he sat in the kitchen after dinner and worked some more on the ash bowl. He owned no television so could not watch the news, had no radio to hear it, but he already knew what was being said about the missing child.
He’d overheard the conversations that afternoon, had been asked by a number of concerned parents if he’d heard or seen anything, and when he said that he’d already offered to help the police with their investigation, he found the parents grateful and willing to offer up their own theories as to what might’ve happened. It was an interesting study on the psychology of people. They seemed starkly divided on the matter: half were sure the boy had gotten disoriented in the storm, while the other half thought he’d run away. Even the principal, coming over to give his usual thanks after the buses had departed, couldn’t bring himself to acknowledge the possibility of an abduction.
It was the same thing every time.
He’d watched for the little girl in the blue jacket, the boy’s sister—what had been her name? Sonya? Laura?—but she didn’t show up to school.
He went to bed at his usual time after finishing the outside of the bowl. Tomorrow, he’d work on the inside.
† † †
Andrew strained to detect even the slightest sound coming from above him, but he heard nothing. He didn’t know if it was because it was the middle of the night—he had no idea what time it was—or the middle of the day. He didn’t know if the man was asleep or had left the house. So he sat and listened for what seemed like hours and hours until even the sound of his own heartbeat seemed like thunder in his ears.
Finally, he got up off of the floor, shivering from the cold and weak from hunger, he crept up the steps to the door and placed his ear on it.
Nothing.
He reached up and gripped the knob and slowly twisted it. He had been sure he hadn’t heard the man lock it after his last check.
The knob rotated and clicked softly. Andrew could almost feel the bolt sliding out of the doorjamb, could hear the click as the tension holding the door closed began to release. When the knob refused to turn any more, he gently pulled on it.
The door refused to budge.
He pushed, but it remained as solid as before.
“Let me out of here!” he screamed, pounding and kicking until he nearly knocked himself off balance and tumbled down the steps. He shouted again and again, but there was no response from the other side.
Crying now with frustration, trembling in fear, he went back down the steps. He’d been hoping to not have to do what he’d planned, but it seemed he had no choice now.
After calming himself, he took the beanbag over to the bed and, using a nail from his pocket, tore it open. When he was finished, he covered what he had done with the thin blanket. Then he grabbed the mop by the base and walked over to the center of the room where he’d already set the milk crate. Standing on it, he poked the end of the handle through the cage surrounding the light bulb and knocked it. The bulb fizzled and blinked.
He tried to hit it harder, but the bulb continued to shine.
Gripping the handle with both hands, he jabbed angrily at the bulb and heard a pop. The room was immediately thrown into darkness. The dying filament cast off a faint light for another second or two before even that was gone.
He could see nothing. He stood trembling on the crate for several minutes listening and waiting for his eyes to adjust, but when he finally, carefully, stepped off it and onto the ground, the darkness was still as absolute as before. Even a hand held in front of him was completely swallowed by a blackness so complete that he didn’t know where he ended and it started.
He kicked the crate away.
Holding his hands out in front of him, he carefully made his way across the room in the direction he thought the stairs would be. When his hand contacted the wall, he moved to his left until he came to the corner. Backtracking, he found the edge of the plywood and the base of the steps. Gently, he angled a corner of the plywood away until the space was wide enough for him to squeeze through. Then, using the head of a nail like a hook, he drew the board back into place as best as he could. He could feel that it wasn’t quite flush with the other board, but it’d have to suffice. In the darkness, hopefully the man wouldn’t notice.
Now he had only to hope that the man would leave the door unlocked the next time he came down.
† † †
When morning arrived, David rose and washed in the sink in the bathroom, shaved, dressed. He went downstairs and ate breakfast. Only once did his eyes venture toward the door to the basement, and that was only to check the calendar. He was expecting another shipment of chloroform today. He’d need to be in town to collect and sign for it.
And to collect Peter Greeley’s mail. Didn’t want to raise suspicions with a full mailbox.
The boy had now gone nearly two days without food or water. He must be getting desperate. He might even be close enough to write his letter.
David went outside to warm up the car, struggling with the door, which had frozen shut overnight. With a crackle, it opened, sending shards of ice showering to the ground around his feet. He started the engine, then exited with the small scraper to remove the snow from the windows.
When he was finished, he went back inside t
he house.
While he waited for the car to finish warming, he washed his dishes and placed them into the drainer to dry. He was about to leave when his eyes passed over the door once again.
He was curious. He knew he shouldn’t be, but he couldn’t help it. Curious and a bit peeved. He’d still not gotten over how cold it had been the other day, and to add to it, the boy had been older than he’d first thought.
Then, there had been the strange dreams last night.
He’d tossed and turned in his bed upstairs most of the night, worrying whether the gods would accept his initial offering or whether they’d demand more. He planned on giving them two fingers and an ear. It was more than the usual, but he wanted to be sure it would be acceptable. But before he did, he needed to be sure the boy was ready.
He swung the calendar to one side and retrieved the key behind it. As quietly as he could, he unlocked the door, placed the key in his pocket, and turned the knob. The door swung heavily inward.
It was dark. He saw this right away. The tape over the switch was still in place. The bulb had finally blown itself out.
Swearing silently to himself, he closed the door again and locked it. Rummaging through the hallway closet, he found a spare bulb and a screwdriver to remove the wire cage. Lastly, he found a flashlight.
Careful to lock the basement door after him, he went down into the darkness.
“I’m watching you, kid.”
With the beam of the flashlight directed several steps ahead of him, he descended, careful to listen for the boy, aware that he could be hiding around the corner ready to attack him.
But after he reached the bottom of the steps and had swung the light around, he saw the hump beneath the blankets on the bed and smiled.
Keeping the beam trained on the bed, went over to the center of the room.
“Boy, get up!”
The figure on the bed didn’t move.
David took another step. “I said, get your ass up!”
He waited and watched, his eyes narrowing, but the lump didn’t move. And when he didn’t even see the telltale rise and fall of breathing, his own breath caught in his throat, thinking the boy had died on him.
He stepped closer, almost missing the crunch beneath his feet before reaching the side of the bed. Swinging the light down, he saw the crushed glass. He thrust the beam upward and saw the shattered bulb.
He flung the blankets back, exposing the remains of the beanbag chair.
“No!”
He stabbed the space beneath the sink with the beam of the light, but the boy wasn’t there.
He checked under the bed.
There was a scraping noise behind him. Still on his knees, he spun the flashlight around. The wall by the steps seemed to be moving, falling. It suddenly crashed to the floor before he had a chance to react, and the boy came streaking out from behind it. He spun before David could react and, using the railing of the staircase, the boy propelled himself up the stairs.
David got casually to his feet. By the time he was fully erect, he could hear the boy trying the knob, failing. Now he was crying out, pounding on the door.
David chuckled.
After retrieving the screwdriver from his pocket, he removed the metal cage and, using a piece of fabric from the beanbag chair, carefully untwisted the exposed stump of the shattered bulb.
The boy was still screaming, still pounding hysterically. David ignored it. He twisted the new bulb into its socket and replaced the metal cage. Then, seeing the mop lying on the floor, he picked it up.
“Come back down here, Andy.”
The pounding and screaming stopped.
“Come down here. I won’t hurt you.”
“I want to go home.”
“Soon. But you have to do as I say.”
“You promise.”
David smiled. The spirit is so malleable, so easily reformed. “Come down here and maybe I’ll get you something to eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Then water. You must be thirsty.”
Silence. Then, “I want to go home.”
“Of course you do. But first, let me get you some water. Come down here.”
He heard the scuffle of the boy’s feet on the steps, then the boy appeared.
“Sit down.” David pointed at the bed. “Here.”
He could see the boy was weak, trembling from the combination of hunger and exhaustion and fear. He stumbled across the room.
“Sit down and behave and maybe I won’t punish you for what you did.”
“You promised.”
David pursed his lips. Then, breaking his gaze, he strode across the room and backhanded the boy before he could react. The boy crumbled to the floor.
At the top of the steps, David swiftly unlocked the door and exited, locking it back up again. He placed the mop in the corner of the kitchen and went over to a cabinet for a glass. Glancing out the window, he saw that his car was still running and he thought about going out there to shut it off. In the end, he decided not to. This would only take a moment.
In a drawer by the refrigerator, he pulled something out and placed it in his back pocket. Then he went back down into the basement.
The boy was sitting on the bed now. David extended his right hand with the empty glass in it.
“Sink’s over there,” he said, gesturing with his head.
The boy frowned. “There’s no water. I tried.”
“Of course there is. Here, take it. Take the glass and you’ll see.”
The boy reached for the glass.
Swift as a thought, David pulled the object from his back pocket with his left hand and swung it forward. The boy’s attention was still on the glass, his fingers outstretched. David kept it just out of the boy’s reach.
He squeezed his hand just as it intercepted the boy’s. There was a moment of resistance. Then the snippers snapped closed with a loud crunch. A look of surprise came over the boy’s face and he jerked his hand back. But it was too late. The finger fell to the bed. David snatched it up and placed it in his glass before the boy began to scream.
“That’s for breaking my light bulb!” David shouted. Spit flew from his lips and sprayed the boy’s face. “Break it again and next time it’ll be two!”
The boy curled up on the bed, clutching his hand to his chest and wailing in agony.
David glared at the quivering form of the boy. He was shaking, but not all of it was fury. He had to stop himself before he got carried away.
“If you’re thirsty,” he mumbled, “there’s water in the toilet bowl.”
† † †
Andrew wanted to kill him. He wanted to torture the man, stick nails into his eyes, and then kill him. Of all the torment he’d had to endure because of his size, nothing had ever been this horrible, even the beatings he’d suffered at the hands of boys two, three, years younger than him.
Half his pinky was gone. He’d looked for it after the agony swept over and away from him and the nausea had passed. He felt weak and thought he might pass out, but he didn’t. The finger was gone; the man had taken it with him.
After the initial shock, the pain had quickly subsided. Now his hand throbbed, starting in his fingertips and extending nearly to his shoulder, a burning, white heat sort of throb. He knew it was ridiculous to think such things, but he worried about his hand becoming infected.
He was surprised at how little it had bled. It had soaked through his shirt, through the blanket and sheets he’d fallen upon after realizing what the man had done to him. But the stain had stopped spreading after a few minutes, and when he slowly drew away his other hand and uncurled his fingers to look at it, the blood slowly oozed down the blade of his hand and dripped across his wrist rather than poured out as he expected.
Tearing a strip from a corner of the sheet that looked less filthy than the rest, he wrapped it around his hand, wincing each time the fabric pushed too hard and sent a bolt of fire up his arm.
It was his
right hand, the hand he used to write with. His racquet hand.
Realizing this, despair overtook him. He hated tennis, and yet he’d have given anything at that moment just for another chance to play the game again. He’d happily play if it meant he could leave this hell and go home.
But he knew that wasn’t going to happen. Unless he figured out a way to escape, he was going to die here. And in order to escape, he needed to replenish his body.
He’d gotten over his initial hunger. The pangs had turned into painful cramps, but those too had subsided. He knew his body was now feeding off its energy stores, breaking down fat and protein. He had little of the former. He could probably last another day without eating and still be strong enough to run. It was his growing dehydration that worried him, and now with this new injury and the loss of blood, even as little as it had been—maybe a half cup at the most—his body was only going to weaken further.
He shot a glance at the toilet before turning away, his stomach rebelling at the thought of drinking the water out of the bowl. He’d already used the toilet to relieve himself. Would he get desperate enough to drink the water, even if it was filtered through cloth?
He didn’t think he’d be alive long enough to become that desperate.
And even if he was, how was he going to get the key away from the man? It was obvious by now that he wouldn’t forget to lock the door, either coming in or going out. Andrew knew he’d never be strong enough to wrestle the key away from him.
He considered standing at the top of the steps to ambush him, but he knew he had no chance of doing that. The door swung inward, which meant he’d have to wait several steps down, then run up while the door was still open and attack. But the man would still have the advantage, being both taller and stronger, as well as having the higher ground. Andrew would have little leverage, and he envisioned how easily it would be for the man to kick or push him down the steps, possibly seriously injuring him.
Insomnia: Paranormal Tales, Science Fiction, & Horror Page 22
