by K. R. Rowe
“Would you like to come in?”
He opened his mouth again to speak but his words were yanked from his lips by a scream from the end of the corridor. Down the hall, a door flew open and a feminine arm shoved a half-naked man backward out of the apartment. Staggering, the man’s shoulders connected with the wall on the other side of the hallway. Clothing followed, flying through the open door.
“Hey! Be careful with my—” Cutting short his words, a flying shoe smacked against his forehead. “You old bat!” The door slammed before he could speak again. He bent to gather his clothing, but staggered again and fell face first on the hallway floor. “I’ll be back,” he mumbled, his face in the carpet, his words slow and almost incoherent. Getting to his hands and knees, he attempted to get to his feet but instead, he vomited.
Phillip’s heart dropped. He wanted to see Allie but being on the clock he couldn’t ignore the disturbance.
He turned to her. “I’ll be right back. Duty calls.” Peeling his gaze from hers, he made his way to where the man sat in a puddle of his own puke.
“Sir, is this your apartment?”
The drunkard looked up. “What are you, a cop?”
“Yes sir, I am.”
“I can’t believe the old battle axe called the law.”
“Can you tell me your name?”
“Fred”
“Fred, how much have you had to drink?”
“Not near enough to put up with that old bitch. I’d never hit a woman, but she needs a good smack. That’s what she needs. One of these days, I swear, I’m gonna—”
“Sir.”
The drunk man leaned to one side, churned out a long loud fart and chuckled. “Name’s Fred.”
“Okay, Fred, we can’t have you out here half naked making threats against your wife.”
“Wife? Hell, she ain’t my wife. She’s too damn ornery. Said I peed in her favorite shoe.”
“Did you?”
“Why, hell no. I wouldn’t get my kickstand anywhere near those hoof huggers. The stink might rot it off.”
“Come on,” Phillip stifled his urge to chuckle and curled his hand around the man’s upper arm to help him to his feet. “Let’s get you down to the station. I think a little sleep might do you some good.”
Allie stood in the doorway, her hand covering her mouth, amusement dancing in her eyes. Phillip had no choice but to smile himself, but he slowed a bit as they passed and murmured, “I’m sorry.”
Chapter 7
Believe
The gold plastic nameplate hung sideways on the wall. It drove Phillip nuts, and he had to straighten it before he could even think about knocking on his boss’s door. His mother had loved his obsessive neat habits, everything in order, no exception, but sometimes he drove himself insane.
A thick metal mesh window covered the top half of the door, and behind it, Rush had drawn the blinds tight. Phillip squinted, trying to see through, with no luck. A long silent pause followed his knock. Frantic rustling came from inside the office and then a drawer slammed shut. He raised his fist to knock again when he heard Rush’s voice.
“It’s open!”
The brushed silver doorknob clicked and the door swung open in silence. Rush lounged behind a massive wooden desk, his expression draped in mischief.
“Come on in and have a seat,” the older man said, waving him in. “And close the door.”
Phillip clicked the door shut and eased into one of the leather chairs. Laying a file on the polished oak, he slid it in front of Rush. The older man opened a drawer, pulled out a greasy half-eaten burger, took a big bite and laid it on the file.
His mouth full, Rush could barely talk. “The wife would kill me if she knew I was eating this.” Nodding toward the closed office door, he went on. “And she has spies out there, you know.”
Phillip stared at the burger. Mayonnaise dripped from the meat, running down the bun, staining his file. The greasy spot grew as he watched, almost like torture, tempting him to snatch the file from the desk, but he resisted.
He took a deep breath. “I know. They’re everywhere.”
“So tell me what you got.” Rush pulled a Coke from his desk drawer, screwed off the cap and took a gulp. Leaning back in his chair, a long belch ripped from his throat. “Pardon me.”
Phillip eased the file from under the hamburger, wiping off the cover he flipped it open. “Some interesting stuff,” he said, pushing the file toward the detective. “But pretty much what I expected. Mr. Griggs was out of town visiting his daughter, but I spoke with his housekeeper.”
“What did she say?”
“She said he was as sane as you and me, still quick witted and sharp as a tack.”
“Did she say if he still carries on with all that supernatural mumbo jumbo?”
“Yes sir, she did,” Phillip said. “But she’s convinced he’s telling the truth. At least, he believes it, and he wouldn’t have any reason to make it up. At his age, he’d have nothing to gain.”
“What’s his story?”
“She wouldn’t go into detail, said she didn’t want to stir up any bad juju.”
“What the hell’s juju?”
“Bad luck.”
“Oh, she’s superstitious?”
“Yeah, very, and she wouldn’t tell me jack. Said I should talk to him, and this time, we need to listen.”
“Times were different back then,” Rush said. “People acted funny about such things. If someone mentioned ghosts or spirts or anything close, they were tagged as crazy and shunned.”
“Well this time, someone’s listening. Leads can turn up where you’d least expect them.”
“You’re learning fast.”
Phillip smiled, needing the encouragement. “I can’t wait to hear more about this earth demon.”
“Do you believe that stuff?”
“Not really,” Philip admitted, “but it only takes one crackpot devil worshiper who does.”
Chapter 8
Last Smoke
The belligerent young man jumped out of the car and slammed the door. “Bitch!”
The taillights shrank into glowing red specks before disappearing into the dense midnight fog. John was pissed, but didn’t let it spoil his self-amusement. Cracking a long, loud, gurgling belch, he chuckled when the sound bounced from rows of adjoining buildings, echoing his gastric eruption.
“Suck on that!”
He pulled a flattened pack of Marlboros from his back pocket and dug out the last one. Lighting the cigarette, he took a long drag, crumpled the empty package and dropped it in the street.
“Where the hell am I?”
Walking home wasn’t on his list of things to do tonight but he had no choice. His girlfriend threw him out of the car—again. He’d gotten drunk and called her father a snooty old prick. What’s the big deal? Everyone knew the old man was a prick.
Night crawled across the narrow streets, pushing gloom into every crevice. The murk stuck to his skin like sweat and the unfamiliar surroundings worked on his nerves. Sobering a bit, he took another draw from his cigarette. He spun around in the roadway, confused. Every street looked the same, all too narrow, all with too many dark alleys and doorways. Buildings loomed over him, much too close, and he imagined muggers and thieves lurking in shadowy alcoves, waiting to rob him and leave him for dead. Just to be safe, he pulled his wallet from his back pocket, took out the cash and credit cards, and crammed them down the front of his pants. If someone mugged him, they’d only get an empty wallet. Unsure of where to turn, he pulled his phone from his pocket and called up his GPS. Maybe he could figure out his exact location and call a cab.
A burst of cold air came from behind him, blowing his hair upward away from his ears. He spun, smacking the back of his neck.
What the hell?
He looked around but saw nothing: no pigeons, bats or blowing objects. Another burst of air brought with it a stench and John pulled his collar over his nose and coughed. Anxious to get home to
his apartment, he turned back to his phone, but something moved in his peripheral vision. When he turned to look, a startled rat scurried into a street drain. He scanned the area for a moment, seeing nothing.
What was it running from?
An eddy of shadows came into view, mottling the cobblestone’s surface. Like living creatures, they circled him, and he watched for a moment before glancing toward the sky. Thunderheads gathered in the distance, swallowing the moon and stars, yet despite no light to cast a shadow, these things continued to move. Dark blotches of mist passed around John’s legs, leaving his skin chilled and his hair standing on end. He jumped back a step when his own shadow split and multiplied into dozens. The cobblestones swelled and buckled, their edges grinding beneath his feet. He rubbed his eyes, certain that the street wasn’t moving, but the sound remained, sending goosebumps prickling along his skin.
I have to stop drinking.
Already rattled, John stared at a black spot expanding on the street. He squinted, trying to adjust his eyes to the night, when a black figure rose from the darkened stones. The mass grew larger, absorbing the roving shadows and mutating, taking the malformed shape of a human. John’s Marlboro dropped from his fingers and bounced on the street, scattering its glowing orange embers across the stones. The entity’s head swiveled toward him; its face void of features, empty flat eye sockets held his stare.
The ungodly stench grew stronger, watering his eyes, but he was afraid to blink. His gaze remained fixed on this thing in the street. The creature dropped out of sight; like a black curtain of rain, falling into a lightless pool. The puddle rippled and rolled toward him, washing over the stones before stopping at his feet. Staring at the black pulsing mass, he wondered if it was real or if he was hallucinating, until it crawled over his shoes and slithered around his ankles.
Snapping out of his trance, he smacked at his legs, trying to push it away, but its cold black tendrils crept further, curling around his torso and up his neck. John panicked, spinning in disoriented circles, yanking off his jacket, scratching at his neck and face, but it clung to his skin like a leech. Filling his nose, it climbed down his windpipe, sealing the air in his chest. Desperate to breathe, he shoved his fingers down his gullet, clawing at chunks of his own flesh, trying to pull this thing from his body but his nails only mutilated his throat.
Head spinning, John staggered, losing his balance and slammed face first onto the uneven stones. His forehead smacked the pavement and his scalp split, splashing blood across the roadway. Bright red foam bubbled from his mouth, mixing with the crimson stained grit digging into his cheek. He tried to get to his hands and knees, but the shadow’s weight trapped him face down.
As fast as they appeared, the shadows split apart and retreated. The pressure eased from his back but a vacuum increased beneath his chest and stomach, pulling his body to the street. The pressure grew stronger, the suction splitting his abdomen and arching his spine. His ribs cracked, splintering inside his chest, bones piercing his lungs and shredding his organs.
The cobblestones sucked the skin from his face, his cheek bones collapsed and the pressure from his crushing skull exploded his eardrums. Searing pain burned through his body. Every nerve ending screamed as his bones popped through his back, splitting skin and ripping his shirt to shreds. His backbone snapped, severing his spinal cord. He felt nothing more as his heart pumped the last of his life onto the street, but instead of pooling around him, his blood and bile soaked into the cobblestones.
Through dying eyes, he watched the street transform. Where his blood had spilled, the cobblestones flourished. Their cracks disappeared and a fresh soft gray saturated their surface. Nearby, a long dead streetlight buzzed to life. A bright black shine rolled up the iron post, erasing years of graffiti and sloughing off the rust like brown-orange snow. Beneath John’s twitching body, the stones pulsed, sucking his remains away from his skin.
His vision failed, the street disappeared, and his eyeballs tore from their sockets.
Chapter 9
First Contact
A grating rattle shook the air conditioner. It hummed before the motor clunked and ground to a stop, emitting a burning electric odor.
“Damn it!”
Allie whacked the top with her fist, but had no luck. Groaning, she tried to switch off the unit, but the knob fell apart between her fingers. She blew out an irritated sigh, glared at the ceiling and cursed under her breath. Although mid-winter approached, stifling warmth from the units below seeped through the floors. Even if she had a fan, the suffocating apartment air would only churn the stale regurgitated heat. She needed a little cool air, and maybe a fresh breeze would be even better. Careful to avoid the broken panes, she lifted the window a few inches. She checked her air unit again—nothing.
Allie stared through the weather stained glass, and down at the street below. She still couldn’t figure it out. The cobblestone’s refurbished area had a defined but irregular edge, reminding her of a bucket of spilled paint. But instead of one dull hue, warm colors saturated the roadway. She squinted, noticing the border had split some stones down the middle; half new, the other half crumbled and darkened with age. The line snaked across the street and wound around a large concrete planter. She leaned against the window for a closer look, unable to believe what she saw.
Are those flowers blooming?
How could that be possible? It was too cold for flowers. Maybe the local college had some kind of art design they were working on. Or maybe they were sneaking in an urban revitalization project in the middle of the night.
A myriad of questions flickered in her thoughts, but as soon as they appeared, she dismissed them. It didn’t really matter how or why, she only worried that her rent would go up, and she couldn’t afford another place. She had nowhere else to go.
Allie left the window, crossed the apartment and slipped into bed. Tossing the sheets aside, she wiped the sweat from her forehead.
“I’ll never be able to get any sleep.”
* * *
The tousled bed sat empty across the room. Allie stood at the window again, her finger tracing cracks in the thick dirty glass. Smears of blood followed her fingertip, the sharp edges biting into her skin, but she felt nothing.
Her attention lay elsewhere.
Eyes locked on the street below, she watched a drunken man stagger, his legs slicing a path in the low hanging mist, his body twisting with spasms before bending at the waist and retching in the street. Straightening, he hauled in a deep gulp of air and walked on. He made it only a few steps before he stumbled, falling into the thick fog blanketing the roadway. Minutes passed before he lurched to his feet, but his knees gave way and he dropped to the street again.
That’s when she saw them.
Shadows circled like stalking wolves. Aphotic patches swirled in the mist: some moving together, some breaking away, circling in wider arcs. She pounded on the window but her own ears failed to register the sound. All she heard was her own racing heartbeat. Digging her fingers under the window frame, she strained to lift it higher, but the window wouldn’t budge any further. The man sat helpless in the street, unable to hear her, oblivious to the danger around him. She pounded the window again and yelled, but silence swallowed all sound, and her cries of warning went unheard.
Her eyes widened in horror; lightless creatures crawled up his body and blackened his pink mottled skin. Gasping for air, the man clawed at his neck. He hacked a violent cough, trying to dislodge an object caught in his throat, but the shadows consumed him and pulled him beneath the mist.
Allie’s eyes snapped open.
She shot upright in bed; her heart racing, body chilled from the cold sweat stippling her skin. Her eyes skimmed the room, her confusion evaporating.
It was only a dream.
Lying on her own sweat soaked bed she kicked the sheets free from her legs and stared across the apartment to the window in the far wall. She hadn’t been there, and she didn’t just watch a man die.
Falling back on the mattress, relief flooded her groggy senses. It was just a nightmare. Taking a deep breath, she tried to relax and slow her pounding heart.
Yet something had roused her from sleep—a strange noise. She held her breath and listened. A low scraping sound came from outside, like a rock dragging in the street. The grinding continued, not moving into the distance, but staying just outside of her window. The sound came in waves, sending a shiver crawling down her spine.
What’s out there?
A stench filtered in as the grating grew louder. The smell clouded the room; not the burning electric scent of the air conditioner but something far different. Stifling the urge to vomit, she pulled the sheet to her nose and coughed, hoping a bird hadn’t deposited a dead rat on her windowsill.
The grinding continued.
She checked the clock by the bed—3:05 a.m.
Trying to ignore it, she rolled to her side and settled back into her damp cotton sheets. Unable to go back to sleep, she stared through the window across the room. The moon hung low in the blue-black horizon. Moonlight fractured by the remnants of storm clouds, illuminated droplets of rainwater, dappling the window with bright silver-white. The beauty deceived, for it masked the true ugliness beyond the glass.
The scraping persisted and the stench grew stronger, increasing her paranoia. Her thoughts began to wander. A man was killed outside, his body mutilated. Could the smell be his scattered remains? Did they find them all? What if he came back to seek revenge? But on who? Revenge on those who did this; or those who did nothing? Maybe the noise was his cold dead fingers, scraping and digging into the granite as he climbed the side of her building. Her eyes burned as she tried not to blink. Maybe he hung there now, beneath the window, waiting to come in after she fell asleep.
