The boy had been hunting for only a few weeks when he realized how dangerous it was to be in the woods at night. He took up the job of providing the family with food, what little he had left of his family, after his father had died from an infected wound that he had received from an intimidated rodent. There were only his mother and younger sister left to expectantly wait at home in anticipation of some sort of meal for the night (there wasn’t much left to do out in the woods other than eat and appreciate each others’ company). The boy remembered when he had the leisure of having the role of waiting at home, and he missed those times.
“I miss my father,” he said. “I wish that he was with me to comfort me, to be my companion in this lonely forest, and to properly teach me how to do this task of hunting that I never expected to take up.”
He had been following a deer for a couple of minutes in hopes of bringing it back to his family’s shelter. He had never killed a deer before, but he had seen his father bring the graceful beasts strapped over his back many times before.
“Maybe I will be like my father,” he wished. “Maybe he will be with me, drawing the arrow back with me, guiding my aim to the deer’s vitals.”
The deer was very adventurous, though. It travelled through the forest deeper and deeper until the boy was no longer able to recognize the trees and brush as those of the world he grew up in. The animal had little care for this, though, as it had no suspicion that a small human had been silently following its every footstep.
When the deer stopped to eat some fresh evergreen plants, the boy nearly blew his cover from his heart skipping a beat. He seized the opportunity to raise his bow, grab and arrow, and prepare to kill the animal. He aimed for the deer’s vitals, and pulled back the string of his bow. In the heat of his excitement, whether it had been for the desire be as much of a man as his father or simply due to his overwhelming hunger, his hand began to nervously shake. The string of the bow snapped loudly, and the arrow whirred into the air above the boy. The deer bent its head quickly toward the disturbance, and it scurried away into the darkness between the trees as soon as it registered the threat of the boy.
“Curse these frail hands!” he yelled. “Now I’ll return home with no food, nothing to be proud of, and it’s all because of these hands!”
But his exclamations were cut short when he noticed a luminous appearance in the black of the forest. Not one shape, he realized, but two small, glowing shapes about two and a half feet above the ground. He made out the details of the bright circles: each had a golden brightness with a black pupil that was deeper than the abyss of the forest. These radiant eyes stared straight into the pale, sickly eyes of the now-frightened boy.
The boy realized that this was a black wolf, one of the most dangerous creatures of the forest night. Just like his mother’s warnings had told him, he could see nothing of the beast in the evening darkness except for those two orbs. The rest of the wolf’s body was left up to his imagination. He imagined the large fangs that would be used to strip his body away from his bones, the thick paws that would leap upon him and hold him down, and the large fur that coated the nimble, yet strong, build of the killing machine. The boy knew that this was only what he imagined, unsure of whether the reality was better or worse.
The boy and the beast were locked into each other’s sight. He wondered if the wolf had any ulterior motives behind his primal desires. He wondered if the wolf had its eyes on the same deer that he had been stalking through the forest earlier. He wanted to apologize to the wolf, to tell implore it to forgive him for scaring away its meal. How he would have given up, he thought, if he had known that such a threatening predator was also claiming ownership over that graceful creature. He wondered if his mother and sister would have forgiven him for giving up their dinner to evade a wolf. He wondered what his father would have thought. Would he have thought of him to be wise or cowardly? There was no drawback to attempting to escape now, though. The boy’s mind raced while trying to formulate a strategy to lose the wolf. His body stayed completely still despite his frantic state of mind. The wolf’s eyes matched this retention of composure: a focused, calm exterior that differed from its raging bloodlust inside.
The boy slowly took a step back, knowing that his life could be stripped away within the next second. The wolf’s eyes moved up by an inch, and the boy’s limbs turned into that of a statue’s as soon as he noticed. Clenching his muscles tightly, the boy shut his eyes and prepared for a jet-black demise. The wolf moved his legs up, and arched his back downward.
A howl echoed out from the heart of the forest.
The boy opened his eyes to hear the footsteps of the wolf trotting into the night. He loosened his muscles and thanked the Lord, thanked his father, thanked his ancestors for watching over him. He decided to find his way back home, even though he was unsure of his current location in the forest.
The boy turned around to head back and was immediately met with six pairs of glowing eyes that had responded to the dinner call.
Thursday, October 30, 2014
Mute
Martin raised his head in the direction of the distant shouting and set forth to investigate. The dense and prickly brush that covered the rocky land scraped at his unprotected torso as he trudged closer to the source of the unknown noise. He had walked through the forest for what seemed to be five minutes before he found the source of the sound: a distressed-looking woman who carried a large backpack and continued to shout the same phrase.
“Sunny!” she shouted, “Sunny!”
Martin deliberately rustled a bush near him to let his presence be known, which the woman immediately reacted to by jerking herself backward to face him. The woman’s face revealed a fearful expression, which quickly distorted into that of surprise.
“Oh my god are you alright?” She paced quickly at Martin with a look of concern on her face and dropped to her knees so she could look him in the face. “What are you doing all the way out here, are you lost?” A brief silence loomed between them before he answered by shaking his head vehemently. The woman looked deeply perplexed.
“Where are your parents?”
Martin didn’t answer.
“You can talk to me” the woman stated while displaying a warm smile.
The boy stared at her for a few seconds, then created an X out of his index fingers and rose them toward his face where he placed them over his mouth. The woman’s worried expression returned. Her eyes drifted to the side and she contemplated her situation. Moments later her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a dog’s bark.
“Sunny!” She stood up and shouted, “Where are you?” She waited for a response, but never got it. She faced Martin.
“Stay close to me, we’re gonna find that dog, alright?”
Martin complied and they both headed deep into the forest. As they walked, the woman spoke about her life in the city and asked questions that went unanswered. Occasionally a bark would be heard and they both would continue to follow it blindly while the woman kept calling. They found a stream eventually and they stopped to rest and replenish their water supply for a few minutes before continuing. When dusk arrived, the woman gave a deep sigh and turned to Martin.
“We need to get you home”
He nodded in agreement, and began to walk back the direction he came. When the woman attempted to follow, he turned and pointed at her, then to the direction where they had heard the dog’s bark. The woman looked conflicted.
“Do you know your way back?”
Martin gave a single nod and turned his back to the woman for the last time. “You sure?”
He ignored her and kept walking.
He hadn’t been walking for three minutes before he found he spotted the corpse of a dead animal in the middle of his path. He advanced upon it slowly for an examination, and found it to be the body of a brown and white mutt. Its eyes were closed and its mouth was shut, it would have looked very peaceful if it weren’t for the fresh surgical wound that ran along its neck. Frightened, he looked all around him to see if the dog’s killer was about. Nothing. Then he heard the sound of a dog’s bark in the distance. He looked back towards the dead mutt, it still lay there dead and unthreatening. Terrified, he decided that head back alone was not an option. The night’s first wave of fireflies appeared as he frantically sprinted back in the direction of the woman. He reached the stream that they had rested at earlier only to find her body peacefully lying on its back with its arms crossed on its belly. Its neck had the same wound.
The boy heard the bark again, only it seemed closer this time. He jerked his head in all directions searching for the best way of escape. He impulsively selected the thickest patch of brush he could find and dashed into it. He ran. The bark was heard again, though this time it seemed much closer. He stumbled over rocks and roots as the night became blacker. The bark repeated three more times, each time getting closer. The small branches around him torn at his skin and snagged his shorts as he ran through them. He heard the woman questioning him from behind.
“Where are your parents?”
Her voice sounded mechanical, like it was being projected from a megaphone.
“How far from here do you live?”
It now seemed like she stood right behind him, but he didn’t dare look.
“You can talk to me” The voice whispered in Martin’s ear.
Martin felt a hand grasp his shoulder and he was tossed to the ground. His impact with the earth pressed the air from his lungs and before he could regain his breath he was effortlessly flipped on his back by whatever stood behind him. What he could see in the dark appeared to be a partially organic and partially mechanical humanoid. Fastened to its exterior were a pair of mechanical lungs, each one inflated and deflated like a bellows fueling a fire. Secured to the monster’s waist appeared to be a varied collection of vocal organs floating freely in a transparent tank of dirty liquid.
The creature used one cold, iron hand to secure Martin to the ground while leaning forward to get a better look at the boy who now suffered in silence. His breath shook heavily and his face was wet with tears and blood, but no noise was produced from the child. The creature now took its free hand and ran its fingers down the boy’s neck while gazing at the familiar mark that ran along it. Upon seeing Martin’s scar the creature stood up, turned its head in a robotic snap, and leisurely wandered back into the forest where it had come from. Martin watched the monster until it was out of sight.
He had survived again, and he felt relieved until he heard the monsters parting words “Goodbye Martin” shouted the invisible voice in the distance.
Hearing his own name did not strike Martin, but he was horrified that it was spoken in the same voice that narrated his conscience.
“Sunny!” she shouted, “Sunny!”
Martin deliberately rustled a bush near him to let his presence be known, which the woman immediately reacted to by jerking herself backward to face him. The woman’s face revealed a fearful expression, which quickly distorted into that of surprise.
“Oh my god are you alright?” She paced quickly at Martin with a look of concern on her face and dropped to her knees so she could look him in the face. “What are you doing all the way out here, are you lost?” A brief silence loomed between them before he answered by shaking his head vehemently. The woman looked deeply perplexed.
“Where are your parents?”
Martin didn’t answer.
“You can talk to me” the woman stated while displaying a warm smile.
The boy stared at her for a few seconds, then created an X out of his index fingers and rose them toward his face where he placed them over his mouth. The woman’s worried expression returned. Her eyes drifted to the side and she contemplated her situation. Moments later her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a dog’s bark.
“Sunny!” She stood up and shouted, “Where are you?” She waited for a response, but never got it. She faced Martin.
“Stay close to me, we’re gonna find that dog, alright?”
Martin complied and they both headed deep into the forest. As they walked, the woman spoke about her life in the city and asked questions that went unanswered. Occasionally a bark would be heard and they both would continue to follow it blindly while the woman kept calling. They found a stream eventually and they stopped to rest and replenish their water supply for a few minutes before continuing. When dusk arrived, the woman gave a deep sigh and turned to Martin.
“We need to get you home”
He nodded in agreement, and began to walk back the direction he came. When the woman attempted to follow, he turned and pointed at her, then to the direction where they had heard the dog’s bark. The woman looked conflicted.
“Do you know your way back?”
Martin gave a single nod and turned his back to the woman for the last time. “You sure?”
He ignored her and kept walking.
He hadn’t been walking for three minutes before he found he spotted the corpse of a dead animal in the middle of his path. He advanced upon it slowly for an examination, and found it to be the body of a brown and white mutt. Its eyes were closed and its mouth was shut, it would have looked very peaceful if it weren’t for the fresh surgical wound that ran along its neck. Frightened, he looked all around him to see if the dog’s killer was about. Nothing. Then he heard the sound of a dog’s bark in the distance. He looked back towards the dead mutt, it still lay there dead and unthreatening. Terrified, he decided that head back alone was not an option. The night’s first wave of fireflies appeared as he frantically sprinted back in the direction of the woman. He reached the stream that they had rested at earlier only to find her body peacefully lying on its back with its arms crossed on its belly. Its neck had the same wound.
The boy heard the bark again, only it seemed closer this time. He jerked his head in all directions searching for the best way of escape. He impulsively selected the thickest patch of brush he could find and dashed into it. He ran. The bark was heard again, though this time it seemed much closer. He stumbled over rocks and roots as the night became blacker. The bark repeated three more times, each time getting closer. The small branches around him torn at his skin and snagged his shorts as he ran through them. He heard the woman questioning him from behind.
“Where are your parents?”
Her voice sounded mechanical, like it was being projected from a megaphone.
“How far from here do you live?”
It now seemed like she stood right behind him, but he didn’t dare look.
“You can talk to me” The voice whispered in Martin’s ear.
Martin felt a hand grasp his shoulder and he was tossed to the ground. His impact with the earth pressed the air from his lungs and before he could regain his breath he was effortlessly flipped on his back by whatever stood behind him. What he could see in the dark appeared to be a partially organic and partially mechanical humanoid. Fastened to its exterior were a pair of mechanical lungs, each one inflated and deflated like a bellows fueling a fire. Secured to the monster’s waist appeared to be a varied collection of vocal organs floating freely in a transparent tank of dirty liquid.
The creature used one cold, iron hand to secure Martin to the ground while leaning forward to get a better look at the boy who now suffered in silence. His breath shook heavily and his face was wet with tears and blood, but no noise was produced from the child. The creature now took its free hand and ran its fingers down the boy’s neck while gazing at the familiar mark that ran along it. Upon seeing Martin’s scar the creature stood up, turned its head in a robotic snap, and leisurely wandered back into the forest where it had come from. Martin watched the monster until it was out of sight.
He had survived again, and he felt relieved until he heard the monsters parting words “Goodbye Martin” shouted the invisible voice in the distance.
Hearing his own name did not strike Martin, but he was horrified that it was spoken in the same voice that narrated his conscience.
My Fingers
Charlie King was a decisive person, and damn proud of it. Decision was something he craved. Like a sip of fine wine, each decision he made gave him a shot of pleasure that lingered in his mouth and sizzled somewhere in his soul. He wore his nature on the cuffs of his sleeves, in the form of two polished brass buttons. Each day, he’d shine them—keep them gleaming as a reminder to the world just how well his quick and sharp decisions had paid off.
He’d moved out the second he was legal, dropped out of college the following year, and started his own restaurant chain—all good decisions. The money from the diners kept his schedule lean, and estranging his family had certainly freed up some time of its own. No funerals. No reunions. No more birthdays to remember.
Plenty of time to sit around shining buttons.
But even though the thought of wine and decisions wouldn’t have normally stoked a good mood, Charlie found himself unhappy. He was even sitting in his favorite chair, a plush chintz with an amber brocade on the back.
Still unhappy.
Charlie fished the letter out of his pocket, and read it again, as if, by running his eyes over the words for a third time, he would finally elicit some enlightenment.
No luck.
Yes, Charlie was unhappy because, for the first time in what had to be years, he couldn’t make a decision. The letter before him was from his father’s house keeper, a little woman from one of the southern countries. Her English hadn’t been articulate, and the handwriting a bit too small, but he’d gotten the gist on the first read. His father, a quiet man of 93 years, had finally kicked the bucket.
And that was it. The decision he couldn’t make. After a good afternoon of thinking, Charlie still had no idea how he felt. A part of him wanted to walk right up to the old family home, and defile it with eggs and spray paint, an act he’d considered many times as a child. He’d be free to do it now that his father’s switch was no longer waiting for him. But there was another part—the vocal minority—that wanted to be upset. To maybe shed a tear or two. There’d been some good times, after all, especially when he was little. His mother had been alive then, and though the fights had been loud and late, his father would always enter Charlie’s room after the lights went out to reassure him.
“I love you, Charlie,” his father’s voice would declare, “never forget that.”
Those words were often the last thing Charlie heard before going to sleep—and they made the nightmares that followed easier to bear.
He was conflicted.
Until, the minority presented something else. Something that finally tipped the scales.
If he went to the house, he’d be able to enter his father’s study. And stay there for as long as he liked.
As long
As he liked.
Charlie crumpled the letter and tossed it into a trash bin in the corner of his sitting room. He stood, gathered his coat, and made for the door. Once outside, he slid into his car, backed into the street, and tore away with all the speed of a predator.
There were many things about his father that bugged Charlie; his trend toward violent punishment being the most obvious. But none dug deeper under his skin than his father’s study. Since Charlie’s earliest memories, the room had always been locked. Off limits. Top Secret.
And, while alive, his father had spent 90% of his free time behind that door. He would come home from work, and disappear inside, only to reemerge when it was time for supper.
Now was his chance to finally discover what lay within.
… He reached the house just before the sun set, and had to sit for a minute in the driveway, marveling at just how weird the place still looked.
The house was three tiny stories stacked up poker-straight like the segments of a dead finger. The walls were cloaked in stucco, aged and worn, with the texture of old bones.
Charlie climbed out of his car, and fished for his key. A part of him was thankful he’d kept it all these years. The notches met with the cogs in the lock, and a heavy click rang from inside the door. With a squeak, the old wood swung away, and he was in.
It occurred to him to call for the housekeeper, so as she wouldn’t mistake him for an intruder.
“Sonya?” He called.
He called again.
Wind tousled the trees outside. Thunderheads advanced across the sky. The house shifted in its sleep.
No answer.
He hadn’t seen her car in the driveway. She was out. At the grocery store, perhaps.
And so Charlie went to the study. The door was just as he remembered it. Thick, dark, old. Stoic, he thought, like dad. He wondered what else in the study would remind him of his father. A part of him feared that the room would be a window into something Charlie didn’t want to see. Fighting, drinking—most of his father’s flaws were so obvious. What if he found something worse inside?
Either way, there had to be some reason for keeping it off-limits for all these years.
The knob turned freely in Charlie’s hand; he nudged the door ajar.
A flick of the light switch revealed a chair, a desk, and a massive painting.
It was bigger than any work Charlie had ever seen. The canvas dominated the entire north wall, stretching from the floor all the way to the ceiling. The subject was a single, aging hand, hewn from a muddy assortment of oils.
What struck Charlie was the detail. Every hair, every pore, every tiny imperfection was vitalized by articulate brushwork. The artist had scrawled a signature into the lower right corner, or, at least, what appeared to be one. Charlie got closer, and found not a name, but a sentence.
Fingers made me paint this.
No name. Just five words.
Charlie decided that, while strange, the signature didn’t really merit any more examination. Nor did the painting. He’d never pegged his father for an art buff, but this had been his private space. Maybe his love for paintings had been a well-kept secret.
Charlie moved to the desk. The surface was empty, but the built-in drawers weren’t. Within each he found a stack of papers—they were drawings, sketches in pencil and charcoal.
Of hands.
Page after page, stack after stack—hands. Old hands, young hands, fists, peace-signs.
finger guns, hands mid-clap. They were beautifully drawn, but each gave Charlie a weird feeling. His father had spent all his free time in this room. Had he just been drawing hands all day?
Charlie leafed through the last stack, and was about to shove it back in its drawer, when the last page caught his eye. This stood out from the others in that it sported a few lines of his father’s chicken-scratch shorthand.
Dear Assistant
I’m disappointed that he escaped, after all we went through to bring him into this world. I’d love to offer a solution, but I can’t. We’ll find him when he wants to be found.
A pair of holes perforated the paper near the bottom of the message, seemingly stabbed through with a pencil. Charlie’s head swam with questions, but he guessed he was looking at a draft of an unsent letter; the text was dated “August 9th, 1973.”
Charlie moved to put the letter back, then noticed something drawn on the other side of the page. This sketch featured a crude stick figure with a round, blank face. The holes from before were enclosed in its circle-face, now a pair of empty eyes.
The hands of the figure were way too big, and way too detailed to fit with the rest. Couple that with the eyes… And you had something seriously disturbing. Charlie put the letter away, and took a step back.
Had his father drawn all these hands? And the painting on the wall—was that his too?
Charlie returned to the massive canvas, and hefted it off its hook, hoping to find a signature on the back that would confirm his suspicions.
Instead, he found a door.
Charlie swallowed. Why…?
Not why was there a door, but why was it boarded up?
Charlie spotted five, no—six boards nailed to the doorframe. Obeying a visceral apart of himself, Charlie pressed an ear to the door. He wasn’t sure what he was trying to find, but he stumbled backward when a noise met him through the wood.
After getting over the shock, Charlie returned, and gave it a closer listen.
It was a sharp creaking sound, the noise a chair made when someone scooted it across a wooden floor.
“Hello?” Charlie called.
No answer. More creaking.
Charlie decided to rehang the painting, and leave the study before anything else weirded him out. Hell, maybe he’d just leave the house all together. He’d had enough of hands, creepy drawings, and everything else.
But he couldn’t do that. Not yet.
There was one more place he needed to see.
… Charlie’s old room was downstairs, nestled between the kitchen and the backyard like a forgotten novella in a row of dictionaries. He’d suspected it to be cleaned out—sold in pieces at various yard sales. However, after stepping inside, he found the room to be completely preserved. His bed, his posters, even his various Lego sets were just as he’d left them.
Though the peach freshener had long since left the atmosphere, leaving the funk of mold and old wood unchallenged. The creaking from upstairs was audible here too, but it quickly faded into the background. Charlie lay on the bed, and shut his eyes. He could almost hear his father’s voice probing the darkness, comforting him as he lay.
He must have fallen asleep, because the next thing Charlie knew, he was awake again. The sun had set, and rain pattered against the roof. The light of the moon threw shadows of the droplets onto the walls and floor, giving Charlie the impression that his room was melting.
All at once, he was a kid again. Lost and alone in a coffin of shadows. A stranger in a strange land. Only this time, he didn’t have his father. No voice to keep close when the cold set in. And boy, was it cold. The hairs on his arms stuck up like quills, and goose bumps had laid claim to his skin. Milky air hissed out of him like a spirit fleeing a tomb. Charlie caught the last ghost of a breath before it could escape. Something seemed particularly off about the room. Something he couldn’t quite… It hit him. The creaking had stopped. The chair—or whatever it was—had stopped.
Charlie wanted to sit up, but his legs refused. His childhood self assured him that death would follow any attempt to leave his bed. Best get under the blankets.
Then the cracking sounded. A harsh splitting sound from beyond the ceiling, the splintering of stubborn wood.
The planks.
A rip came seconds later.
The canvas.
Then footsteps. Fast and hard. Running down the stairs, straight through the hall.
And into his room.
Charlie had shut his eyes; he didn’t dare open them now.
A throaty voice mingled with the rain.
“I know your mother and I don’t always agree. And I know that sometimes, that can be scary.”
Charlie’s blood finally ran cold.
“And I know that I can say some scary things.”
No…
“But I love you, Charlie,” the thing said in his father’s voice, “don’t ever forget that.”
A hand brushed against Charlie’s forehead, and Charlie grabbed it. His eyes flew open, and standing above him, he found a tall shadow. Taller than his father ever was.
“Who are you!?”
Even as he said the words, Charlie knew that what would’ve been more appropriate.
Glowing green eyes sparkled like fire crackers. Huge hands dangled from its arms, painted bone-white by the moon. Charlie didn’t see a mouth open, but seconds later, a scream issued from the depths of the creature louder than anything Charlie had ever heard. The shriek rattled the glass, and Charlie’s teeth. It was all he needed.
In one motion, Charlie sprung out of bed, and slammed his fist into the Creature’s face. It toppled like a bowling pin—a big tangle of dry limbs and darkness. Charlie stormed out the door, and tore through the hallway. His heart pushed blood into his head as he pumped his feet. All the while it was right behind him, screaming like a tortured prisoner. He was mere feet from the door when he felt its fingers on his back, tugging at his jacket. And so he let it go—Buttons and all.
He wriggled free of the jacket, and threw it into the thing’s face. He ripped the door open, and stumbled outside, slamming it behind him. The thing regarded him from beyond the glass of the door. It seemed unable to leave the house—or, at least, it didn’t want to. Charlie wanted to run, to tear away in his car and never look back. But there was one question that still needed answering.
“Why did you do it? Why did you impersonate him for all those years?” The creature took a moment to reply. “Because I wanted to be him,” it cooed in a voice that didn’t belong to anyone. “But I am just fingers.” Charlie was gone. Out of the driveway, out of the neighborhood, then out of the city. The rain still tore through the air, still coated the road. But it was letting up. Charlie took out his phone and combed through his contacts. Not friends, not coworkers. Family. Small group, but it existed.
The decision cheered him up, as they usually did. And this was a big one. He decided to get in touch with some real family.
He’d moved out the second he was legal, dropped out of college the following year, and started his own restaurant chain—all good decisions. The money from the diners kept his schedule lean, and estranging his family had certainly freed up some time of its own. No funerals. No reunions. No more birthdays to remember.
Plenty of time to sit around shining buttons.
But even though the thought of wine and decisions wouldn’t have normally stoked a good mood, Charlie found himself unhappy. He was even sitting in his favorite chair, a plush chintz with an amber brocade on the back.
Still unhappy.
Charlie fished the letter out of his pocket, and read it again, as if, by running his eyes over the words for a third time, he would finally elicit some enlightenment.
No luck.
Yes, Charlie was unhappy because, for the first time in what had to be years, he couldn’t make a decision. The letter before him was from his father’s house keeper, a little woman from one of the southern countries. Her English hadn’t been articulate, and the handwriting a bit too small, but he’d gotten the gist on the first read. His father, a quiet man of 93 years, had finally kicked the bucket.
And that was it. The decision he couldn’t make. After a good afternoon of thinking, Charlie still had no idea how he felt. A part of him wanted to walk right up to the old family home, and defile it with eggs and spray paint, an act he’d considered many times as a child. He’d be free to do it now that his father’s switch was no longer waiting for him. But there was another part—the vocal minority—that wanted to be upset. To maybe shed a tear or two. There’d been some good times, after all, especially when he was little. His mother had been alive then, and though the fights had been loud and late, his father would always enter Charlie’s room after the lights went out to reassure him.
“I love you, Charlie,” his father’s voice would declare, “never forget that.”
Those words were often the last thing Charlie heard before going to sleep—and they made the nightmares that followed easier to bear.
He was conflicted.
Until, the minority presented something else. Something that finally tipped the scales.
If he went to the house, he’d be able to enter his father’s study. And stay there for as long as he liked.
As long
As he liked.
Charlie crumpled the letter and tossed it into a trash bin in the corner of his sitting room. He stood, gathered his coat, and made for the door. Once outside, he slid into his car, backed into the street, and tore away with all the speed of a predator.
There were many things about his father that bugged Charlie; his trend toward violent punishment being the most obvious. But none dug deeper under his skin than his father’s study. Since Charlie’s earliest memories, the room had always been locked. Off limits. Top Secret.
And, while alive, his father had spent 90% of his free time behind that door. He would come home from work, and disappear inside, only to reemerge when it was time for supper.
Now was his chance to finally discover what lay within.
… He reached the house just before the sun set, and had to sit for a minute in the driveway, marveling at just how weird the place still looked.
The house was three tiny stories stacked up poker-straight like the segments of a dead finger. The walls were cloaked in stucco, aged and worn, with the texture of old bones.
Charlie climbed out of his car, and fished for his key. A part of him was thankful he’d kept it all these years. The notches met with the cogs in the lock, and a heavy click rang from inside the door. With a squeak, the old wood swung away, and he was in.
It occurred to him to call for the housekeeper, so as she wouldn’t mistake him for an intruder.
“Sonya?” He called.
He called again.
Wind tousled the trees outside. Thunderheads advanced across the sky. The house shifted in its sleep.
No answer.
He hadn’t seen her car in the driveway. She was out. At the grocery store, perhaps.
And so Charlie went to the study. The door was just as he remembered it. Thick, dark, old. Stoic, he thought, like dad. He wondered what else in the study would remind him of his father. A part of him feared that the room would be a window into something Charlie didn’t want to see. Fighting, drinking—most of his father’s flaws were so obvious. What if he found something worse inside?
Either way, there had to be some reason for keeping it off-limits for all these years.
The knob turned freely in Charlie’s hand; he nudged the door ajar.
A flick of the light switch revealed a chair, a desk, and a massive painting.
It was bigger than any work Charlie had ever seen. The canvas dominated the entire north wall, stretching from the floor all the way to the ceiling. The subject was a single, aging hand, hewn from a muddy assortment of oils.
What struck Charlie was the detail. Every hair, every pore, every tiny imperfection was vitalized by articulate brushwork. The artist had scrawled a signature into the lower right corner, or, at least, what appeared to be one. Charlie got closer, and found not a name, but a sentence.
Fingers made me paint this.
No name. Just five words.
Charlie decided that, while strange, the signature didn’t really merit any more examination. Nor did the painting. He’d never pegged his father for an art buff, but this had been his private space. Maybe his love for paintings had been a well-kept secret.
Charlie moved to the desk. The surface was empty, but the built-in drawers weren’t. Within each he found a stack of papers—they were drawings, sketches in pencil and charcoal.
Of hands.
Page after page, stack after stack—hands. Old hands, young hands, fists, peace-signs.
finger guns, hands mid-clap. They were beautifully drawn, but each gave Charlie a weird feeling. His father had spent all his free time in this room. Had he just been drawing hands all day?
Charlie leafed through the last stack, and was about to shove it back in its drawer, when the last page caught his eye. This stood out from the others in that it sported a few lines of his father’s chicken-scratch shorthand.
Dear Assistant
I’m disappointed that he escaped, after all we went through to bring him into this world. I’d love to offer a solution, but I can’t. We’ll find him when he wants to be found.
A pair of holes perforated the paper near the bottom of the message, seemingly stabbed through with a pencil. Charlie’s head swam with questions, but he guessed he was looking at a draft of an unsent letter; the text was dated “August 9th, 1973.”
Charlie moved to put the letter back, then noticed something drawn on the other side of the page. This sketch featured a crude stick figure with a round, blank face. The holes from before were enclosed in its circle-face, now a pair of empty eyes.
The hands of the figure were way too big, and way too detailed to fit with the rest. Couple that with the eyes… And you had something seriously disturbing. Charlie put the letter away, and took a step back.
Had his father drawn all these hands? And the painting on the wall—was that his too?
Charlie returned to the massive canvas, and hefted it off its hook, hoping to find a signature on the back that would confirm his suspicions.
Instead, he found a door.
Charlie swallowed. Why…?
Not why was there a door, but why was it boarded up?
Charlie spotted five, no—six boards nailed to the doorframe. Obeying a visceral apart of himself, Charlie pressed an ear to the door. He wasn’t sure what he was trying to find, but he stumbled backward when a noise met him through the wood.
After getting over the shock, Charlie returned, and gave it a closer listen.
It was a sharp creaking sound, the noise a chair made when someone scooted it across a wooden floor.
“Hello?” Charlie called.
No answer. More creaking.
Charlie decided to rehang the painting, and leave the study before anything else weirded him out. Hell, maybe he’d just leave the house all together. He’d had enough of hands, creepy drawings, and everything else.
But he couldn’t do that. Not yet.
There was one more place he needed to see.
… Charlie’s old room was downstairs, nestled between the kitchen and the backyard like a forgotten novella in a row of dictionaries. He’d suspected it to be cleaned out—sold in pieces at various yard sales. However, after stepping inside, he found the room to be completely preserved. His bed, his posters, even his various Lego sets were just as he’d left them.
Though the peach freshener had long since left the atmosphere, leaving the funk of mold and old wood unchallenged. The creaking from upstairs was audible here too, but it quickly faded into the background. Charlie lay on the bed, and shut his eyes. He could almost hear his father’s voice probing the darkness, comforting him as he lay.
He must have fallen asleep, because the next thing Charlie knew, he was awake again. The sun had set, and rain pattered against the roof. The light of the moon threw shadows of the droplets onto the walls and floor, giving Charlie the impression that his room was melting.
All at once, he was a kid again. Lost and alone in a coffin of shadows. A stranger in a strange land. Only this time, he didn’t have his father. No voice to keep close when the cold set in. And boy, was it cold. The hairs on his arms stuck up like quills, and goose bumps had laid claim to his skin. Milky air hissed out of him like a spirit fleeing a tomb. Charlie caught the last ghost of a breath before it could escape. Something seemed particularly off about the room. Something he couldn’t quite… It hit him. The creaking had stopped. The chair—or whatever it was—had stopped.
Charlie wanted to sit up, but his legs refused. His childhood self assured him that death would follow any attempt to leave his bed. Best get under the blankets.
Then the cracking sounded. A harsh splitting sound from beyond the ceiling, the splintering of stubborn wood.
The planks.
A rip came seconds later.
The canvas.
Then footsteps. Fast and hard. Running down the stairs, straight through the hall.
And into his room.
Charlie had shut his eyes; he didn’t dare open them now.
A throaty voice mingled with the rain.
“I know your mother and I don’t always agree. And I know that sometimes, that can be scary.”
Charlie’s blood finally ran cold.
“And I know that I can say some scary things.”
No…
“But I love you, Charlie,” the thing said in his father’s voice, “don’t ever forget that.”
A hand brushed against Charlie’s forehead, and Charlie grabbed it. His eyes flew open, and standing above him, he found a tall shadow. Taller than his father ever was.
“Who are you!?”
Even as he said the words, Charlie knew that what would’ve been more appropriate.
Glowing green eyes sparkled like fire crackers. Huge hands dangled from its arms, painted bone-white by the moon. Charlie didn’t see a mouth open, but seconds later, a scream issued from the depths of the creature louder than anything Charlie had ever heard. The shriek rattled the glass, and Charlie’s teeth. It was all he needed.
In one motion, Charlie sprung out of bed, and slammed his fist into the Creature’s face. It toppled like a bowling pin—a big tangle of dry limbs and darkness. Charlie stormed out the door, and tore through the hallway. His heart pushed blood into his head as he pumped his feet. All the while it was right behind him, screaming like a tortured prisoner. He was mere feet from the door when he felt its fingers on his back, tugging at his jacket. And so he let it go—Buttons and all.
He wriggled free of the jacket, and threw it into the thing’s face. He ripped the door open, and stumbled outside, slamming it behind him. The thing regarded him from beyond the glass of the door. It seemed unable to leave the house—or, at least, it didn’t want to. Charlie wanted to run, to tear away in his car and never look back. But there was one question that still needed answering.
“Why did you do it? Why did you impersonate him for all those years?” The creature took a moment to reply. “Because I wanted to be him,” it cooed in a voice that didn’t belong to anyone. “But I am just fingers.” Charlie was gone. Out of the driveway, out of the neighborhood, then out of the city. The rain still tore through the air, still coated the road. But it was letting up. Charlie took out his phone and combed through his contacts. Not friends, not coworkers. Family. Small group, but it existed.
The decision cheered him up, as they usually did. And this was a big one. He decided to get in touch with some real family.
Monday, October 27, 2014
Turn Back
I woke up unable to move my body.
At first I thought I was dreaming, the way my room would warp in and out of focus like someone was adjusting a camera lens. But I knew without a doubt that I was fully awake. My body refused to move. I tried to change positions, turn my head, wiggle my fingers, but I couldn’t budge. Down to the marrow of my bones, I was paralyzed.
I begged silently for the nerves in my muscles to come back to life, and I felt sick, pricklywarm panic rise in my throat like bile. I could feel my stomach churning as I desperately tried to control the rapid, expanding nausea. My lungs struggled for each breath, but the air I was gulping down felt toxic, like I was chugging gasoline.
I rolled my eyes in every direction, resting on the figure in the room.
It looked like a man, or the silhouette of one; I wasn’t sure. At this point, I didn’t trust my own mind. Once I saw it, the thing expanded, inching closer to the bed. My room bent at the will of the figure like a black hole, and my throat itched to scream. The thing got closer...
The sound of my own voice broke the silence as I screamed at the top of my lungs. It was so sudden that I scared myself, but it was enough to break the illusion. I sat up so quick that I heard my spine crack at the sudden straightening of my back. Panic burdened my breathing and I gasped and sputtered, drowning in my own overwhelming fear.
I could hear the erratic footsteps of my mum as she ran down the main hall and ripped my bedroom door open, skittered to the side of my bed as she groped my face, dabbing the sweat from my temple with the back of her hand, asking if I was okay.
I couldn’t form thoughts into verbal answers, trying to dull the the panic in my stomach. I wanted to say it was a nightmare, but I wasn’t sure anymore...
“Sleep paralysis is caused by lack of sleep, or a dysfunctional sleeping pattern. Try to gain back sleeping hours a little at a time. Don’t lie on your back; that’ll encourage paralysis. If you are taking medication or have any mental conditions, consider talking to a professional to work out a solution if this continues.”
I stared at the article on my computer screen, relieved to know that there was a name for what was happening to me. I would know how to handle the situation.
A week after, I found I couldn’t move. I was frozen into place, paralyzed down to my toes. I broke out into a cold sweat when I saw the figure lurking in the far corner of my room almost immediately.
Something was different this time. I could see it’s face, but it was veiled by shadows like it was wearing a hood. I tried wiggling small parts of my body like the article suggested, trying to move my toes, one at a time, hoping this nightmare would go away. The thing opened its mouth:
Turn back.
My heart lunged into my throat. The figure was ten feet away, but it’s voice traveled across that distance and whispered in my ear. My heart was beating against my rib cage like it was trying to jump out and escape. I locked eyes on the shadow in the room, afraid if I looked away for a second it would start moving toward me. But it stood completely still, waiting in the corner as if it were plotting something, saying the same thing over and over:Turn back.
I tried wiggling my toes again.
Turn back.
My toe flinched.
Turn back.
Suddenly my body eased out of it’s paralyzed state and I choked on relief I shot up from my bed, shaking like a leaf. I felt like crying.
I told my mum what had happened that night. She rubbed my back and reminded me that it was only a bad dream. But it kept coming back, more vivid and terrifying than ever. Sometimes the figure would apparate and rush towards me like a cheap jumpscare from an internet video, or walk around as if it were taking inventory on every item and book I owned. I became so mentally fatigued that I would try sleeping in different places, or avoid sleep altogether and drive the car downtown, falling asleep on the side of the road until 5:00 rolled around and I drove back home.
Once I gave in and fell asleep in my own bed for the first time in three weeks, the nightmare came back.
It was much easier to distinguish that the last time. The figure looked five years older than me, with sunken eyes and indented, gaunt cheek bones. They wore a dark hoodie over a plaid shirt. The most unnerving thing wasn’t the fact that their neck was twisted sideways in an unnatural position, but the fact I was looking at myself.TURN BACK.
Those two words resounded in my head, and I was thrown into a traumatic state, thrashing as I broke away from my bed and ran out the room, disoriented. Out of our apartment, down the main stairs that led out the building, I sprinted to the car in my bare feet. I got in and started the engine, adjusting the mirror. I froze when I saw my doppelganger in the back seat, his eyes bulging.
TURN BACK.
I hit the gas and lurched forward, driving maniacally as this mirror image screamed “turn back” over and over in my ears. Insanity ruled over common sense, and before I could stop myself, I turned sharply over a bridge, the car tilted and barrel rolled, and I was weightless for a moment before my head slammed into the ceiling and I felt my neck snap.
At first I thought I was dreaming, the way my room would warp in and out of focus like someone was adjusting a camera lens. But I knew without a doubt that I was fully awake. My body refused to move. I tried to change positions, turn my head, wiggle my fingers, but I couldn’t budge. Down to the marrow of my bones, I was paralyzed.
I begged silently for the nerves in my muscles to come back to life, and I felt sick, pricklywarm panic rise in my throat like bile. I could feel my stomach churning as I desperately tried to control the rapid, expanding nausea. My lungs struggled for each breath, but the air I was gulping down felt toxic, like I was chugging gasoline.
I rolled my eyes in every direction, resting on the figure in the room.
It looked like a man, or the silhouette of one; I wasn’t sure. At this point, I didn’t trust my own mind. Once I saw it, the thing expanded, inching closer to the bed. My room bent at the will of the figure like a black hole, and my throat itched to scream. The thing got closer...
The sound of my own voice broke the silence as I screamed at the top of my lungs. It was so sudden that I scared myself, but it was enough to break the illusion. I sat up so quick that I heard my spine crack at the sudden straightening of my back. Panic burdened my breathing and I gasped and sputtered, drowning in my own overwhelming fear.
I could hear the erratic footsteps of my mum as she ran down the main hall and ripped my bedroom door open, skittered to the side of my bed as she groped my face, dabbing the sweat from my temple with the back of her hand, asking if I was okay.
I couldn’t form thoughts into verbal answers, trying to dull the the panic in my stomach. I wanted to say it was a nightmare, but I wasn’t sure anymore...
“Sleep paralysis is caused by lack of sleep, or a dysfunctional sleeping pattern. Try to gain back sleeping hours a little at a time. Don’t lie on your back; that’ll encourage paralysis. If you are taking medication or have any mental conditions, consider talking to a professional to work out a solution if this continues.”
I stared at the article on my computer screen, relieved to know that there was a name for what was happening to me. I would know how to handle the situation.
A week after, I found I couldn’t move. I was frozen into place, paralyzed down to my toes. I broke out into a cold sweat when I saw the figure lurking in the far corner of my room almost immediately.
Something was different this time. I could see it’s face, but it was veiled by shadows like it was wearing a hood. I tried wiggling small parts of my body like the article suggested, trying to move my toes, one at a time, hoping this nightmare would go away. The thing opened its mouth:
Turn back.
My heart lunged into my throat. The figure was ten feet away, but it’s voice traveled across that distance and whispered in my ear. My heart was beating against my rib cage like it was trying to jump out and escape. I locked eyes on the shadow in the room, afraid if I looked away for a second it would start moving toward me. But it stood completely still, waiting in the corner as if it were plotting something, saying the same thing over and over:Turn back.
I tried wiggling my toes again.
Turn back.
My toe flinched.
Turn back.
Suddenly my body eased out of it’s paralyzed state and I choked on relief I shot up from my bed, shaking like a leaf. I felt like crying.
I told my mum what had happened that night. She rubbed my back and reminded me that it was only a bad dream. But it kept coming back, more vivid and terrifying than ever. Sometimes the figure would apparate and rush towards me like a cheap jumpscare from an internet video, or walk around as if it were taking inventory on every item and book I owned. I became so mentally fatigued that I would try sleeping in different places, or avoid sleep altogether and drive the car downtown, falling asleep on the side of the road until 5:00 rolled around and I drove back home.
Once I gave in and fell asleep in my own bed for the first time in three weeks, the nightmare came back.
It was much easier to distinguish that the last time. The figure looked five years older than me, with sunken eyes and indented, gaunt cheek bones. They wore a dark hoodie over a plaid shirt. The most unnerving thing wasn’t the fact that their neck was twisted sideways in an unnatural position, but the fact I was looking at myself.TURN BACK.
Those two words resounded in my head, and I was thrown into a traumatic state, thrashing as I broke away from my bed and ran out the room, disoriented. Out of our apartment, down the main stairs that led out the building, I sprinted to the car in my bare feet. I got in and started the engine, adjusting the mirror. I froze when I saw my doppelganger in the back seat, his eyes bulging.
TURN BACK.
I hit the gas and lurched forward, driving maniacally as this mirror image screamed “turn back” over and over in my ears. Insanity ruled over common sense, and before I could stop myself, I turned sharply over a bridge, the car tilted and barrel rolled, and I was weightless for a moment before my head slammed into the ceiling and I felt my neck snap.
Saturday, October 25, 2014
At 9000
“Finally done with all this crap!”, Mr. Miller thought to himself. After so many years spent teaching
kids how to turn in a proper papers, he felt disappointed at the incompetence of their own mother
tongue. He stood up from his comfy office chair, papers into the shelves, his working bag over his
shoulder, wondered why he had been wasting so much time looking at all those chicken scratches every
Sunday night.
He glanced over at the wallhanged clock. It was already 9 o’ clock. Seems like he had overdone himself with the papers. He felt his shoulders stiff as he walked to the door. He grabbed the door knob, turned and swung the door open. A stream of neon light from his office room brightened up a corner of school’s corridor.
He looked to the left. Nothing but deep dark, endless line of hallway. His eyes could not make out much after about 3 steps in length. Faint lights eerily lit up bits of the hallway from windows on the side. Mr. Miller turned around to see just the same on his right side. “Tonight’s cold”, he thought. He reached into the light switch from outside the room and down went the only light source left in the corridor. He closed the door, locked it. Now he was in the hold of complete darkness. Mr. Miller felt a little chill down his spine as he turned back towards the exit, which was only a few steps away from his office room. He had spent too much time to know exactly where the exit was without the need to see it. Five steps away. . .Three. Four. Five.
“Hmm?”, he thought, noticing the knob was not where it should be. He took another step, found the exit and walked out, not forgetting to lock it. His car was parked just a couple of feet away. He turned to his car as a gust of wind swept past the building making the huge oak tree next to him swung wildly, its leaves brushed off one another, creating a frightening sound. Mr. Wilson looked back behind his shoulder just to see the school building shrouded by darkness. He found a sudden urge to walk quickly to his car as if it was calling for him while somebody tickling his spine. His car. A brown old Chevy with rust at the rear along with mud, has been his welcoming partner for a whole 18 years. Mr. Miller got in his car sensing the feeling of dread just a moment ago suddenly left him with ease. As a habit, he turned on the engine as well as the old radio. He changed to channel 15 and pulled the car out of the parking lot. Abruptly, his car came to a sudden stop. He thought he had hit something and came out to check. But he saw nothing. Must have been the old car’s problem. He got in the car and started the engine again.
Sitting in his car, Mr. Miller sorted his memories back to the days of his childhood. His mother. His father. His brother. They all one by one left him alone on this Earth. His brother died in a car accident 2 years ago. The radio kept rambling on and on about some goddamned basketball game that he did not know or rather did not care about. He changed the channel random until he stopped at a report of a murder case.
“Three days ago, a murder has been conducted by a 43yearold high school teacher. This man, BUZZZZ, brutally killed his wife by stabbing her multiple times to the chest and left the victim in the bathtub” said the radio. This car should have been out of commision long ago. Why have I not sold it yet? “Prior to the murder of his wife, BUZZZ also came to his school where he works to kill a janitor. The police are speculating the motive behind the murders adultery.”
When Mr. Miller arrived at his home. as usual, he parked the car right outside his house. There were no lights seen from outside the house. It seems nobody was at home. Or his wife was already asleep. He started his well established ritual of home arrival by dropping off his jacket, put himself on the couch and turned on the TV.
“The suspect has is now custody....”. Mr. Miller immediately turned off the TV, feeling dread raising in his gut. He felt too tired to get dinner and decided to go to bed. He dragged his feet to the door of the bedroom. His wife wasn’t there. She must be at her sister’s house. Not that he cares. He took off his tie and just fell down to the bed with a thump. He felt his mind drifted away as he closed his eyes shut. Before he knew it, he was already fast asleep…
When he opened his eyes, Mr. Miller was at his office at school. He warily looked around the room as he had no recollection of his coming to school. He realized that he was already wearing the suit just a few moments before he got home. He looked up the wall and see that it was 9. His office was brightly lit but there were no sunlight outside the windows.
“What the hell happened?”, mumbled Mr. Miller as he frowned, trying to rigorously digging up his memories of how he got there. WHAM! A sudden sound startled him out of his constant stream of thoughts. Sounds of rusted metal dragging along the ground outside his office door came closer and closer. Mr. Miller breathed faster, his heart started going out of control. In an instant, all his consciousness was focused beyond that closed door. Whatever is happening must be a goddamned prank from whoever out the door. He allowed himself to be taken by a fit of rage stormed to the door, sorting his minds of all the probable faces of mischief. That irritating sound kept dragging on like a tedious wail. He grabbed the door knob and the door slammed open. “Who’s there!?”, shouted Mr. Miller. A gust of wind swept through his whole body. There was no one beside his shadow and the abyssal corridor. Mr. Miller noticed something different. A faint object at the far side to his left. He squinted and realized the object is the janitor’s water bucket and the mob next to it.
“Those should be in the cleaning closet”, he thought to himself. He heard voices over his shoulder and turn to see. Nothing… The unpleasant feeling he felt before is now rising up again in his stomach. He quickly turned off the light and left the room. Now when he reached his hands out to the exit, it was one step further than last time. He walked hurriedly to the parking lot and started driving home as quickly as he can.
“... BUZZ brutally killed his wife by stabbing her multiple times to the chest…”, the radio kept on blabbing about the same news over and over. Mr. Miller arrived home to find the house unlit. He checked around the house for his wife this time but there were no signs of her there. Now he is worried. He picked up the phone and dialed her. The speaker beeped a few times and answered with a voice message reminder. This is not the first time she had gone out without telling him. He comforted himself by trying not to think about it but something he still felt tight in his chest. He took a quick meal and head to the bathroom. He opened the door to the washroom and felt a sharp, invisible force pulling him inside. He stumbled over and fell down forward.
When he came to his senses, he noticed he was, once again, in his school office. However, the lights were flickering at frequent interval. It was 9. He stood up while hearing footsteps out the door. The steps stopped and who or whatever was out there was trying to turn the knob. The knob continuously made terrifying, clanking noises as it struggled nonstop. Mr. Miller stood still, eyes wide opened, his mouth gaping, taking short breaths. He was utterly paralyzed.
It took him a while to calm down again. He decided to grab his keys on the desk and make a run to the parking lot. He took a few deep breaths and opened the door, sprinted vigorously to the exit. He could feel the darkness quickly lurking after him. He exited the building, ran to his car, lock it and looked carefully into the building from his car. He was shocked to see a dark figure standing just behind a window frame. He did not know who… no what it was. He felt every inch of his body aching. It was staring at him. It shrugged up and down. It was laughing.
Something shifted his focus to another way. Mr. Miller felt something behind his neck. Something was pulling his hair from behind. He sense his gut boiling up with anxiety. He slowly turned his head around. His jaws dropped. His eyes fixed. He was staring at a creature with long hair covering most of its face. Its face, horrifyingly distorted. Its eyes, one missing, the other with no pupils visible but a dim red glow.
This is it.
** ****** ***** **** “Doctor, he’s seizing again.”, said the nurse. “Yeah, after killing his wife and coworker, he’s completely lost it.”, said the doctor, “put him out again”. “Looks like our jobs here are done”, said the detective handling the murder case.
He glanced over at the wallhanged clock. It was already 9 o’ clock. Seems like he had overdone himself with the papers. He felt his shoulders stiff as he walked to the door. He grabbed the door knob, turned and swung the door open. A stream of neon light from his office room brightened up a corner of school’s corridor.
He looked to the left. Nothing but deep dark, endless line of hallway. His eyes could not make out much after about 3 steps in length. Faint lights eerily lit up bits of the hallway from windows on the side. Mr. Miller turned around to see just the same on his right side. “Tonight’s cold”, he thought. He reached into the light switch from outside the room and down went the only light source left in the corridor. He closed the door, locked it. Now he was in the hold of complete darkness. Mr. Miller felt a little chill down his spine as he turned back towards the exit, which was only a few steps away from his office room. He had spent too much time to know exactly where the exit was without the need to see it. Five steps away. . .Three. Four. Five.
“Hmm?”, he thought, noticing the knob was not where it should be. He took another step, found the exit and walked out, not forgetting to lock it. His car was parked just a couple of feet away. He turned to his car as a gust of wind swept past the building making the huge oak tree next to him swung wildly, its leaves brushed off one another, creating a frightening sound. Mr. Wilson looked back behind his shoulder just to see the school building shrouded by darkness. He found a sudden urge to walk quickly to his car as if it was calling for him while somebody tickling his spine. His car. A brown old Chevy with rust at the rear along with mud, has been his welcoming partner for a whole 18 years. Mr. Miller got in his car sensing the feeling of dread just a moment ago suddenly left him with ease. As a habit, he turned on the engine as well as the old radio. He changed to channel 15 and pulled the car out of the parking lot. Abruptly, his car came to a sudden stop. He thought he had hit something and came out to check. But he saw nothing. Must have been the old car’s problem. He got in the car and started the engine again.
Sitting in his car, Mr. Miller sorted his memories back to the days of his childhood. His mother. His father. His brother. They all one by one left him alone on this Earth. His brother died in a car accident 2 years ago. The radio kept rambling on and on about some goddamned basketball game that he did not know or rather did not care about. He changed the channel random until he stopped at a report of a murder case.
“Three days ago, a murder has been conducted by a 43yearold high school teacher. This man, BUZZZZ, brutally killed his wife by stabbing her multiple times to the chest and left the victim in the bathtub” said the radio. This car should have been out of commision long ago. Why have I not sold it yet? “Prior to the murder of his wife, BUZZZ also came to his school where he works to kill a janitor. The police are speculating the motive behind the murders adultery.”
When Mr. Miller arrived at his home. as usual, he parked the car right outside his house. There were no lights seen from outside the house. It seems nobody was at home. Or his wife was already asleep. He started his well established ritual of home arrival by dropping off his jacket, put himself on the couch and turned on the TV.
“The suspect has is now custody....”. Mr. Miller immediately turned off the TV, feeling dread raising in his gut. He felt too tired to get dinner and decided to go to bed. He dragged his feet to the door of the bedroom. His wife wasn’t there. She must be at her sister’s house. Not that he cares. He took off his tie and just fell down to the bed with a thump. He felt his mind drifted away as he closed his eyes shut. Before he knew it, he was already fast asleep…
When he opened his eyes, Mr. Miller was at his office at school. He warily looked around the room as he had no recollection of his coming to school. He realized that he was already wearing the suit just a few moments before he got home. He looked up the wall and see that it was 9. His office was brightly lit but there were no sunlight outside the windows.
“What the hell happened?”, mumbled Mr. Miller as he frowned, trying to rigorously digging up his memories of how he got there. WHAM! A sudden sound startled him out of his constant stream of thoughts. Sounds of rusted metal dragging along the ground outside his office door came closer and closer. Mr. Miller breathed faster, his heart started going out of control. In an instant, all his consciousness was focused beyond that closed door. Whatever is happening must be a goddamned prank from whoever out the door. He allowed himself to be taken by a fit of rage stormed to the door, sorting his minds of all the probable faces of mischief. That irritating sound kept dragging on like a tedious wail. He grabbed the door knob and the door slammed open. “Who’s there!?”, shouted Mr. Miller. A gust of wind swept through his whole body. There was no one beside his shadow and the abyssal corridor. Mr. Miller noticed something different. A faint object at the far side to his left. He squinted and realized the object is the janitor’s water bucket and the mob next to it.
“Those should be in the cleaning closet”, he thought to himself. He heard voices over his shoulder and turn to see. Nothing… The unpleasant feeling he felt before is now rising up again in his stomach. He quickly turned off the light and left the room. Now when he reached his hands out to the exit, it was one step further than last time. He walked hurriedly to the parking lot and started driving home as quickly as he can.
“... BUZZ brutally killed his wife by stabbing her multiple times to the chest…”, the radio kept on blabbing about the same news over and over. Mr. Miller arrived home to find the house unlit. He checked around the house for his wife this time but there were no signs of her there. Now he is worried. He picked up the phone and dialed her. The speaker beeped a few times and answered with a voice message reminder. This is not the first time she had gone out without telling him. He comforted himself by trying not to think about it but something he still felt tight in his chest. He took a quick meal and head to the bathroom. He opened the door to the washroom and felt a sharp, invisible force pulling him inside. He stumbled over and fell down forward.
When he came to his senses, he noticed he was, once again, in his school office. However, the lights were flickering at frequent interval. It was 9. He stood up while hearing footsteps out the door. The steps stopped and who or whatever was out there was trying to turn the knob. The knob continuously made terrifying, clanking noises as it struggled nonstop. Mr. Miller stood still, eyes wide opened, his mouth gaping, taking short breaths. He was utterly paralyzed.
It took him a while to calm down again. He decided to grab his keys on the desk and make a run to the parking lot. He took a few deep breaths and opened the door, sprinted vigorously to the exit. He could feel the darkness quickly lurking after him. He exited the building, ran to his car, lock it and looked carefully into the building from his car. He was shocked to see a dark figure standing just behind a window frame. He did not know who… no what it was. He felt every inch of his body aching. It was staring at him. It shrugged up and down. It was laughing.
Something shifted his focus to another way. Mr. Miller felt something behind his neck. Something was pulling his hair from behind. He sense his gut boiling up with anxiety. He slowly turned his head around. His jaws dropped. His eyes fixed. He was staring at a creature with long hair covering most of its face. Its face, horrifyingly distorted. Its eyes, one missing, the other with no pupils visible but a dim red glow.
This is it.
** ****** ***** **** “Doctor, he’s seizing again.”, said the nurse. “Yeah, after killing his wife and coworker, he’s completely lost it.”, said the doctor, “put him out again”. “Looks like our jobs here are done”, said the detective handling the murder case.
Friday, October 24, 2014
Halloween Stuffed with Surprises
I sat my children down around the glowing fire to tell them a story that haunted me for years. They were now old enough that it was time to pass on the tradition. In the quite suburbs of Massachusetts there was a lonely, single man named Mr. Harold. He was a strapping man in his mid 60’s. He was about 5’9, and had deep brown, hazelnut eyes and his signature midnight black slicked back hair, that he never left his house with out doing. He wore baggy cloths always, even though he was a scrawny man. He lived in the very last house at the end of the road. You would rarely see Mr. Harold. He never left his house besides getting the mail at the end of the sidewalk every other week. You would only see Mr. Harold during the month of October. Mr. Harold was obsessed with Halloween! It was his favorite time of year. He loved seeing the faces of the little kids when they received the top notch Halloween candy. Though he also loved seeing the faces of the frightened teenagers as he freaked them out with menacing mask and pranks. Although it was his favorite event, it always drove him crazy by the end. Mr. Harold held a deep secret that emerged every Halloween.
It was Halloween time in that quiet unsuspecting neighborhood. Mr. Harold always had the best, most amazing decorations. He put up many of his decorations the night before, but left the best ones until the night of Halloween, so no one could steal them. It always amazed one preteen boy who wanted to be the next Halloween master. He always would observe Mr. Harold and the quirks he did to make his house the best.
On this particular pre-Halloween night the boy got the nerve to go up to Mr. Harold’s house and ask him personally to show him how to have the best Halloween decorations. He knocked on his door abruptly. He could hear Mr. Harold inside putting something up but he could not decipher what the noise was. Mr. Harold appeared in the doorway looking pale and had crimson stains all over the apron he was wearing. The boy pushed his way inside Mr. Harold’s elaborate decorated house. As the boy entered he muttered, “great costume”. The man was at first hesitant, but then as if he had an idea, let the boy come inside. The man showed the boy around with willingness. He led the boy to the kitchen and explained, “this is where the culinary magic happens.” There on the counter were some plump, golden, caramel apples. The boy was amazed at how beautiful they were. Mr. Harold could see the look on the boys face and gave him one. The boy’s expression lit up. Then he escorted him towards the living room were he was stuffing this mammoth, realistic spider. The eight, fuzzy, 5-foot legs spread sporadically thought the small space. Mr. Harold was now looking more excited than ever and invited the boy downstairs to his basement.
He said to the boy, “ This is where I make and store my best decorations”. He led the boy to a sliver volt door that lead to some creaky old wooden steps. The man whispered, “ I don’t want anyone finding out my Halloween secret”. The boy nodded in agreement. The old man let the enthusiastic boy go first. He stepped down the darken stairs one by one. Mr. Harold so kindly lit a candle that he used for working. As the room lit up the boys mouth dropped. Not with excitement or enthusiasm, but with pure terror. There in the slightly lit room were dead children’s bodies, which had been scattered and severed all around in the basement. The boy could tell they were real due to the horrible stench seeping into his nose. The boy witnessed limbs detached from their body, overflowing in bloody cardboard boxes. Bodies stacked on top of one another on an old couch placed by the back corner. By the only basement window there were 3 gutted body skins with bags of stuffing placed next to them.
The man walked towards the boy with a huge chopping knife with dried blood on it. The boy presumed he was the next person to be killed. The man did not walk any farther towards him, nor did he start to attack him. Mr. Harold slowly walked to a grey cabinet that had blood seeping from the openings. He leisurely pulled the rusty door open and a dead body fell quickly to the ground.
Mr. Harold said in a slow voice, “ I’m excited for you to help me finish my next stuffing, but first we have to gut it”.
The boys faced turned white, all the blood drained from his face.
“All that I really wanted to do was have the most elite decorations on the block.”
The man responded firmly, “ I know, that’s why I’m teaching you ”.
It clicked with the boys mind that this is how the old man got the best and most realistic decorations. He used real people. The boy wanted no part of this any more! He wanted to escape as fast as he could. Mr. Harold had other planes.
Mr. Harold whispered words to the boy’s ear, “ I need you! You were to carry on my tradition after I die. I am not letting you leave until you fulfill my wishes. Once you dismember this human and rid it of all the rotting organs and inners then stuff it, you may go. If you do not fulfill my wishes, you will be the next victim to be stuffed!” As the man was saying this, the boy could feel the man’s deep nails digging into his back, right shoulder. The man watched him with his cold, beady eyes and gave him a freshly sharpened, silver knife. He placed it in the boy’s trembling hand. The boy made the first incision in the dead body.
It was Halloween time in that quiet unsuspecting neighborhood. Mr. Harold always had the best, most amazing decorations. He put up many of his decorations the night before, but left the best ones until the night of Halloween, so no one could steal them. It always amazed one preteen boy who wanted to be the next Halloween master. He always would observe Mr. Harold and the quirks he did to make his house the best.
On this particular pre-Halloween night the boy got the nerve to go up to Mr. Harold’s house and ask him personally to show him how to have the best Halloween decorations. He knocked on his door abruptly. He could hear Mr. Harold inside putting something up but he could not decipher what the noise was. Mr. Harold appeared in the doorway looking pale and had crimson stains all over the apron he was wearing. The boy pushed his way inside Mr. Harold’s elaborate decorated house. As the boy entered he muttered, “great costume”. The man was at first hesitant, but then as if he had an idea, let the boy come inside. The man showed the boy around with willingness. He led the boy to the kitchen and explained, “this is where the culinary magic happens.” There on the counter were some plump, golden, caramel apples. The boy was amazed at how beautiful they were. Mr. Harold could see the look on the boys face and gave him one. The boy’s expression lit up. Then he escorted him towards the living room were he was stuffing this mammoth, realistic spider. The eight, fuzzy, 5-foot legs spread sporadically thought the small space. Mr. Harold was now looking more excited than ever and invited the boy downstairs to his basement.
He said to the boy, “ This is where I make and store my best decorations”. He led the boy to a sliver volt door that lead to some creaky old wooden steps. The man whispered, “ I don’t want anyone finding out my Halloween secret”. The boy nodded in agreement. The old man let the enthusiastic boy go first. He stepped down the darken stairs one by one. Mr. Harold so kindly lit a candle that he used for working. As the room lit up the boys mouth dropped. Not with excitement or enthusiasm, but with pure terror. There in the slightly lit room were dead children’s bodies, which had been scattered and severed all around in the basement. The boy could tell they were real due to the horrible stench seeping into his nose. The boy witnessed limbs detached from their body, overflowing in bloody cardboard boxes. Bodies stacked on top of one another on an old couch placed by the back corner. By the only basement window there were 3 gutted body skins with bags of stuffing placed next to them.
The man walked towards the boy with a huge chopping knife with dried blood on it. The boy presumed he was the next person to be killed. The man did not walk any farther towards him, nor did he start to attack him. Mr. Harold slowly walked to a grey cabinet that had blood seeping from the openings. He leisurely pulled the rusty door open and a dead body fell quickly to the ground.
Mr. Harold said in a slow voice, “ I’m excited for you to help me finish my next stuffing, but first we have to gut it”.
The boys faced turned white, all the blood drained from his face.
“All that I really wanted to do was have the most elite decorations on the block.”
The man responded firmly, “ I know, that’s why I’m teaching you ”.
It clicked with the boys mind that this is how the old man got the best and most realistic decorations. He used real people. The boy wanted no part of this any more! He wanted to escape as fast as he could. Mr. Harold had other planes.
Mr. Harold whispered words to the boy’s ear, “ I need you! You were to carry on my tradition after I die. I am not letting you leave until you fulfill my wishes. Once you dismember this human and rid it of all the rotting organs and inners then stuff it, you may go. If you do not fulfill my wishes, you will be the next victim to be stuffed!” As the man was saying this, the boy could feel the man’s deep nails digging into his back, right shoulder. The man watched him with his cold, beady eyes and gave him a freshly sharpened, silver knife. He placed it in the boy’s trembling hand. The boy made the first incision in the dead body.
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