Hiding in the Dark – Short Tales of the Macabre

Published by Ben Crofton at Smashwords

Copyright 2010 Ben Crofton

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Table of ContentsWhen the Butterflies Start

Heirloom

Purge

The Hunted

The 21st Year

Deadwood Drive

When the Butterflies Start

The woods surrounding Lucile’s cabin were as terrible as they were beautiful. During the day they shined with the resplendence and vitality of nature, but at night they grew sullen, brooding, and were full of a sentient malevolence that Lucile could not explain.

At first, she’d fought with herself about whether or not to sell the cabin. It sat secluded at the foot of a giant hill near the edge of town, enveloped by the woods that covered the land for miles. Only a small moat of prairie grass and a narrow gravel driveway broke the monotony of the trees, features that Lucile had loved in happier times.

Now, things were different. Earnest was gone, and the woods were not the same. Nevertheless, the cabin was an ideal place for her to live out the last years of her life, and Lucile knew that she’d never work up the resolve to sell it anyway. It was special to her - it had been her and Earnest’s weekend getaway, and the thought of some stranger living there was almost more than she could bear.

After his death, she’d sold the condo they had shared in the city, intent on settling down to a quieter, simpler life. Out here, she could go days without seeing another human being. Only rarely did anyone venture beyond the boundaries of the nearby town, and she was only forced to go there when in need of groceries or other necessities.

Her only problem was the fear. It came with the dusk, creeping with the shadows that moved slowly across the hardwood

floors of the cabin, working its way into her mind like a hungry parasite. At sunset, her routine was always the same: every curtain on every window was drawn, every door locked. She’d take a glass of water and two pieces of dry toast up to her room, where she’d lock her bedroom door behind her. She would stay there until sunrise, and no matter what noises carried across the stillness of the night air, she would not allow herself to look out of the windows until the light of morning.

She supposed that she was just being foolish, and that the fear merely stemmed from one terrible memory.

But it’s over. That happened a long time ago. She stared at the TV for a moment longer before picking up the remote and switching it off.

The Five O’clock News was on, which meant that the sun would set in a couple of hours. She cooked a light dinner for herself, which she ate at a small wooden table that sat out on

the deck. As she chewed her food she thought of her husband. The loss still stung after all those years, as she supposed it would for the rest of her life. As she gazed into the woods, she wished that he were there with her.

The woods always reminded her of Earnest; he had loved them so much. He’d been an outdoor enthusiast, hunting and fishing until the day his arthritis had gotten so painful that he could barely walk on his own. He had been miserable the last few years, not because of the pain, but because he could no longer do the things that he loved. Seeing him like that had always hurt Lucile more than anyone could have imagined.

She finished her last bite and sat back, allowing the food to digest. Her eyes continued to take in the forest, and she smiled. For the time being, she felt no fear. At that moment, the woods were to her what they had been when Earnest was still alive – peaceful and beautiful.

She sat outside until the shadows of the trees had grown to a length that announced the approach of the sunset, and stood up when the first telltale quivers began to work their way up from her stomach.

When the butterflies start, it’s time to close up.The woods seemed to watch her as she took her plate inside and closed the door behind her,

and she shivered. After locking the bolt, she brought her soiled plate and silverware to the sink and set them down. She would tend to the dishes in the morning.

She made her way around the cabin, shutting the blinds on each window. When she had finished, she walked to the front door and turned the deadbolt.

She went back into the kitchen and got a loaf of bread from the refrigerator. She put two slices in the toaster as she filled a glass with water from the tap. Soon, she was on her way up the stairs, listening as the aged wood creaked under her weight.

She walked down the short hallway to the second bedroom. As she entered, she paused for a moment and closed her eyes, just as she did every evening. She stood still and silent, breathing deeply.

I will never forget you.After a few minutes, she opened her eyes and crossed the room to the single window that sat

in the far wall. She untied the curtains that hung beside it and allowed them to fall across the panes, then turned back to the hallway.

Back in her own room, she closed the curtains over each window and shut the bedroom door. She placed a frail hand on the stainless steel lock, twisting it until she heard a satisfying click. Certain that all was well, she put her nightgown on, turned on the television, and climbed in bed. She watched into the evening, ignoring the fear as it swelled within her.

Around nine, she switched the TV off and lay down on her back. Her stomach fluttered and churned, sensations that she ignored with well-practiced resolve. She breathed deeply, gradually coaxing herself into sleep.

Suddenly her eyes snapped open. The fear exploded through her, reaching a level that she had seldom felt before. She sat up and put a hand on her thundering chest, forcing herself to take slow, steady breaths.

She lay in bed for a few more moments, wondering why the fear was so intense, when she heard something.

There was movement outside. Something was making its way through the woods, off in the distance. She swallowed hard, and began to tremble.

Last time this happened was more than three years ago.The thing that troubled Lucile the most about the woods was the eerie predictability that had

settled about them since her return. During the day they were vibrant, full of the sounds of squirrels, birds, and insects. At night, no crickets chirped, no creatures foraged – there was no movement at all. Except on rare occasions. And when the movements came, the fear was intense to a point that bordered on hysteria.

She’d always told herself that she was a woman of reason: rational, logical - not some superstitious fool. Nevertheless, it was after she had heard the sounds for the first time that she had decided to lock her doors and close her blinds each night, and above all, to never to look out of the windows after dark again, even if the woods were completely still.

As she continued to lie in bed, the sounds grew louder. Brush rustled and twigs snapped. Whatever made the noise grew nearer.

That can’t be. It’s never come this close.But there was no denying what her ears told her. The sounds continued to grow more

defined, like the thrashings of an animal with a wounded limb, blundering its way through the foliage.

Then, the rustling stopped. Lucile continued to listen, trying to hear past the blood that rushed through her ears. Her body grew rigid as she heard a new sound worm its way up from the darkness, one she hadn’t heard in years.

A thick, revolting moan tainted the stillness of the night. Lucile’s knuckles whitened on the coverlet. She glanced back over at the window as the

sounds of something coming through the woods began again, certain that she could see whatever it was if she pulled the curtains aside and looked out.

But you won’t. You won’t, because you don’t want to know.The rustling continued, growing louder and closer, until again the noises ceased. Lucile lay

in bed, breathing quickly, listening as hard as she could. One minute went by, then another. Still, she heard nothing.

It’s gone. It must have gone back into the forest.Yet the fear persisted. It festered in her mind, corroding her senses like acid.It’s all right. Calm down. Please, calm down.Then she froze, listening intently once again. She’d heard something downstairs. She

continued to listen, and felt her terror grow even more as a faint scratching sound made its way through the house.

It’s at one of the windows! It’s trying to get in!The sound of breaking glass echoed through her home, and she bit back a scream. More

glass shattered, and she heard something large hit the floor.My God, it’s inside!Frantically, she switched her bedroom light off. It’s too late. It’s already seen the light from outside. It knows where I am.She heard something approach from below. It walked with an uneven gait, seeming to totter

about as it made its way to the stairs. Lucile heard another crash, one that she identified as the ceramic lamp that she kept on a small table near the foot of the steps.

Her grip on the coverlet had grown painful by the time she heard the creak of the old wood as the thing put its weight on the first step. The stairs protested again as it continued to climb.

There was complete silence for a moment, until its languished cry came again, more sickening and clear than she had ever heard it, bubbling up from the depths of a ravaged and corrupted throat.

Unable to fight her terror any longer, she screamed aloud, not horrified by the sound’s otherworldliness, but by its uncanny resemblance to a human voice.

To his voice. She screamed again as she heard it coming down the hall, and again as it began to throw its

weight against the solid oak of the bedroom door.At the first hit, the door cracked. The second yielded a wider fissure, and on the third the

door erupted inward in a shower of splinters. Lucile screamed again as she shielded her eyes, feeling her arms begin to bleed as they were peppered by flying scraps of wood.

She noticed the stench of decay even before she raised her eyes to stare at what stood in the doorway, and she saw what it was with a horrific clarity made possible by the sickly pale glow that emanated from its sagging frame.

It stood lopsided, on legs bowed and blasted with rot. It was clothed in the remnants of jeans and a flannel shirt, and its decayed face seemed dominated by the blackened teeth that grinned from beneath its shriveled lips. Only one of its eyes remained, hanging down its face on a string of moldy tissue, while the other socket was empty save for a pinprick of dull red light.

Flaps of tattered rags and decomposing skin hung from its bones, swinging sickeningly as it took a lurching step forward.

“Luke,” Lucile whispered hoarsely. “My God, it’s you, isn’t it?”The thing groaned again, a sound that was as mournful as it was repulsive. It took another

step forward.“It was an accident,” Lucile said, a hot tear running down her cheek. “We never meant for

you to suffer.”The thing paused, tilting its head, appearing to listen.“I should have known it was you. I’ve felt you, Luke. I knew you were out there. Listen to

me. What happened was an accident. It was a horrible, horrible accident. Your father and I didn’t mean for you to suffer, I promise -”

The thing roared with a ferocity that belied its seemingly fragile person, and it thrust its bony hands violently forward.

“Luke, please. You have to understand. You have to know how much we loved you. We wanted you to have a proper burial, but the police wouldn’t have understood. They would have put your father in jail, Luke. He would have been locked up for the rest of his life.”It took another shaky step towards the bed. Its mouth fell open, and a stream of black, stinking liquid ran down its chin.

“Listen,” Lucile said, beginning to speak more quickly. “Your father never got to tell you how sorry he was, how much he regretted what he did. That argument between you and him . . .it wasn’t supposed to turn out the way that it did. It wouldn’t have turned out that way, not if your father had been sober. We had to do what we did, Luke. There was no other way.”

It took another step forward and the sound came again, lingering on in the cramped space of Lucile’s bedroom, resolving itself into an aberrant semblance of human speech.

“I. . . .WASSS . . . .ALIVVVE. . . .”Lucile wept openly. “I know,” she said. “I know you were. We went back the next day, and found one of your

hands sticking up out of the dirt. Your fingers were bloody. We knew that you had tried to dig yourself out.”

The thing stepped forward again, muttering something that Lucile could not understand. It reached towards her. She reeled from the stench, and shuddered as its rotting hands closed around her throat.

“Luke. . .I’m . . .sorry . . .”It began to squeeze.

#

Excerpt Taken From The Peeksville TimesWednesday July 19, 2007

Bizarre Circumstances Surround Woman’s Death

An elderly woman was found dead inside of her home Tuesday afternoon, Peeksville Police Capt. Douglas Johnson said today.

Lucile Moore, age 72, was found in her bed at approximately 1:30 pm when a local beauty shop owner called police after becoming concerned when Moore missed a morning appointment.

“Her hands were wrapped around her own neck,” Johsnon said. “We also found wounds consistent with strangulation.”

Johnson said that authorities had not completely ruled out foul play, though he admitted that evidence at the scene did not seem to indicate that foul play was involved.

“There were no signs of a struggle, no signs of a forced entry to the home,” Johnson said. “This is without question the strangest case I’ve ever seen.”

An autopsy was scheduled for Thursday. . .

Heirloom

The back room in Tyler’s basement had always been a repository of useless or broken items, crammed from wall-to-wall with things that most people would have happily thrown away. To describe him as a packrat would have been wholly inadequate; he was a merciless hoarder, refusing to part with any of his possessions no matter how far beyond use or repair they were.

For Tyler, the legion of tightly packed junk had a meaning that went far deeper than the conventional notion of ownership. Each thing he possessed was an integral part of him, intertwined with his psyche in a way that not even he could completely understand. The mere thought of harm coming to anything in his room filled him with an uncontrollable panic; he could no more destroy or discard an object from that space than he could cut off his own arm.

Even the room’s newest addition had a place there, despite having filled his heart with revulsion for as long as he could remember.

It was a portrait of a wealthy gentleman standing in a library. The man wore a powdered wig, gilded waistcoat and dark brown overcoat. A white lacy collar flowed down over his chest. His grandfather had willed the painting to him after his death, a hateful prank that had filled Tyler with rage.

He knew how I felt about that painting. He knew, and he stuck me with it anyway.As a boy, Tyler visited his grandfather often. His father had died when he was very young,

and his mother, forced to provide for herself and her small child on a relatively menial wage, was prone to anxious fits during which she would pack a suitcase for Tyler, shuttle him off to her father’s, and not return for several days. Tyler did not understand what these “anxious fits” were, nor did he know where his mother went when they occurred.

He had asked her about them once. Her expression had gone strangely blank, and her eyes had filled with tears.

“I get them from my father,” she had said with a voice that quavered slightly, “just like he got them from his father. We’ll have to hope that they’re not something you’ll ever have to deal with.”

He had never understood what she meant, or why the question had upset her so. All he knew was that he had no desire to see his mother in such a state, and he silently vowed never to bring up the subject again.

Whenever he visited his grandfather, Tyler would spend the majority of his time in the sitting room, on an old leather couch that smelled of must and liniment. He was forbidden from most parts of the house, and was only allowed outside on the rare occasions when the old man was in the mood to accompany him.

His grandfather would always take the chair across from him, silently gazing at Tyler with his sunken corpse-eyes, mumbling about the painting.

“Do you see the man?” he would say in his maddeningly high voice. “Look at him. Look at the man. Do you see him?”

The orations always made Tyler nervous, and he often tried to leave the room once they began. Unfortunately, the old man would never suffer him that pleasure.

“Sit down!” he would say, rising up from his chair, pointing his finger down at Tyler like a judge pronouncing a death sentence. “You listen to me. Look at that painting. Look at it. Do you see him? Do you see the man? Tell me that you see him!”

The memory made Tyler’s upper lip twitch, and he glowered at the portrait.I should burn it. I should light it on fire and bury the ashes.

Of course, he knew that would be impossible, which made his predicament that much more frustrating. He took one last look at his grandfather’s dreadful parting gift before storming out of the room and slamming the door behind him.

#

The night was restless, alive with the incessant din of cavorting insects. Sweat covered Tyler’s body regardless of the thermostat’s sixty-five degree setting, and the sheets surrounding him were unpleasantly moist.

Despite repeated attempts to turn his thoughts to more pleasurable things, the same two sentences ran through his head:

That painting is in my house. In my special room.He imagined his grandfather standing there next to him, and could almost hear the rasp of

his failing lungs as he breathed out the words that Tyler had come to despise.Do you see the man, Tyler? Do you see him?He threw off the sheets, and walked quickly into the hall. He opened the linen closet and

pulled out an old blanket. Moments later he was in the basement, standing in the darkness of the room. He flipped the switch on the wall and advanced towards the painting.

“You have no place here,” he said. “You’re not welcome. This is my home. Mine. You belong in the ground with the old man. You belong to the worms.”

Tyler tossed the blanket over the painting. He took a few steps back, feeling marginally better now that it was covered. He flicked the light off and shut the door, heading upstairs for a night he already knew would be sleepless.

#

Tyler sat by the window, gazing out into the back yard, barely noticing the beauty of the sunrise. His eyes were red and swollen from lack of sleep. It had been weeks since the painting had arrived, and he had not slept a single night since then.

“It’s not supposed to be here,” he said to no one. “Not here.”He had barely eaten since its arrival, and he was unable to work. His boss had recently

called and told him that if he didn’t show up, he’d lose his job. None of that concerned him. All he could think of was the old man, gloating as he rotted in

the earth, his maggot-ridden voice rising up out of the ground in which he lay. I’ve won, Tyler. This is what happens when you don’t listen to me. I told you to look at

him. I told you to see him. “Shut up!”Tyler stood up quickly, knocking his chair over. He walked briskly to the kitchen, yanked

open a drawer, and pulled out a steak knife. He headed towards the basement stairs, descended, and was back in front of the painting in moments.

The blanket still rested between Tyler and the man in the canvass. He reached forward and tore it off, brandishing the knife.

The man stared up at him, and he forced himself to look back. He peered into the man’s steely eyes, silently damning him, evoking whatever powers of good existed in the universe to rise up and cast the portrait into the bowels of hell.

At that moment a sudden memory violently seized him, driving him to the floor. The knife clattered to the cement as Tyler pulled at his hair, mouth open in a silent scream. Unable to halt the tumult of images that assailed him, he curled himself into a ball, watching wide-eyed as the room grew dark around him.

#

He was in his grandfather’s sitting room again, though he was much younger. This time his mother was with him.

She trembled from head to foot, eyes fixed on the painting.It was empty, save for the dusty shelves of an ancient library.“There’s nothing there,” said his mother. “Why are you doing this?”“You’ll see him,” came a familiar voice. Tyler looked behind him and saw the old man standing there, eyes alight with delirium. A

primal grin split his face, and he moved forward, past Tyler, to where his mother stood.He reached out a hand and gently stroked her face. She grew rigid at his touch, drawing

slightly back.“Just tell me about the man,” he said quietly, voice cooing in mock compassion. “What

does he look like?”“There is no man.”He slapped her, hard. Tyler started to cry.“Tyler-” she began, starting towards him. His grandfather grabbed her arm and spun her

around, back to face the painting.“Look at him,” he said, twisting her arm, driving her to the ground. “Look at the man. Look at him! Tell me that you see him!”He stooped down over her, grasping her shirt. Tyler heard the sharp sound of ripping

fabric as he tore it from her body. He struck her again.“No,” she said. “No, please, not in front of Tyler-”Cackling, he fell upon her. Tyler threw himself to the floor, shouting for his mother, pleading for his grandfather to

stop. His cries went unheard, eclipsed by the sound of his mother’s screams.Then he noticed something that nearly stopped his heart - a man had appeared in the

painting. Tyler gaped at him, horrified at the way he leered from the canvass, and at the brightness of his eyes. He could almost see the man’s mouth moving, and for a moment he could swear that an old, dusty voice wheezed through his skull.

“You’re mine now. I’m here, and you can’t get rid of me. I’ll be with you forever and ever and ever and ever. . .”

#

Tyler screamed aloud, wrenching himself from the purgatory of the recollection. He grabbed the knife from where it had fallen, rising to his knees.

“No one. . .deserves this. . .”He lurched forward, thrusting the knife towards the painting with a hand that shook almost

too violently to control. Beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead, and he closed his eyes

tightly as he felt the tip of the knife plunge through the canvass. He guided the blade upwards, then to the side, panting as he completed his work. Tears streamed from his eyes as a square piece of canvass floated to the ground, landing softly before him.

He snatched it up, caressed it with the tips of his fingers, and shoved it into his mouth. It tasted like moldy cardboard, yet he chewed it feverishly, squeezing his eyes shut as he swallowed the pulpy muck that the fragment of the painting had become.

He repeated his actions, cutting each new square with fanatical care, stomach cramping more painfully with each mouthful. His throat grew raw, and he tasted blood.

When the outline of the man was all that remained, Tyler grimaced, holding his bloated stomach with one hand, leaning forward, knife extended.

“You are still. . .part of me. . .but you can’t. . .hurt me. . .anymore. . .”He thrust the knife into the man’s neck, cutting sideways, wincing as the piece of canvass

fell to the floor. He picked it up, and was surprised to find it empty – the stern face he had come to know and hate had disappeared.

Tyler looked up at what was left of the painting. The rest of the man had also vanished. The ancient library that he had eclipsed for so long sat revealed, just as Tyler remembered it.

He devoured the circular piece of canvass, then returned to his work, hands moving with the meticulousness of an artisan. When the last piece was gone, he collapsed. His stomach roiled, his jaw ached, and blood ran freely down the back of his lacerated throat. The knife fell from his hand, and he smiled through a mouthful of red teeth, ignoring the fire that burned in his belly, staring at the piles of junk now visible through the empty frame.

Gone were the fear and tension that had hovered about him since the portrait had come. His heart was light; filled with a sense of calm he had never known. He closed his eyes, letting the sensation work itself into his consciousness. He convulsed as a sudden, sharp pain ripped through his gut, yet the smile never left his lips.

I can sleep again, he thought, closing his eyes. I can sleep. . .

Purge

The boy thrashed about as his parents dragged him down the stairs into the basement. They had little trouble maneuvering him, regardless of his resistance.

“Stop that,” his mother snapped, “or you’ll regret it.”Heedless of her threat, the boy fought harder. His parents each tightened their grips, and

his arms began to throb under the pressure.When they reached the bottom of the stairs, they headed towards a cracked wooden door in

the right-hand wall. It squealed loudly as the boy’s father pushed it open. He flicked a switch on the wall, and the room was flooded with musty yellow light.

The bare overhead bulb did little to disperse the shadows that seemed to thrive in every corner of the room, and the boy continued to fight against his parents as they led him to the murky space’s only accoutrement: a dusty wooden chair with pieces of rope attached to the armrests and the front legs.

Without another word they began to remove his clothes, easily stripping him in spite of his flailing arms and legs. In moments his shirt and pants were off, and he was naked save for his stark white briefs.

“Sit,” his father said, pushing him into the chair. The boy fought valiantly, even as his mother tied his bonds, cinching the rope around his wrists and ankles so tightly that it dug painfully into his skin.

When they had finished, his parents stepped back, as if to survey their handiwork.“One hour,” his father said. “You keep quiet, or it will be two.”“I hope for your sake the spiders aren’t biting today,” his mother said as she followed his

father out of the room. She hit the light switch as she left and shut the door, enveloping the room in near total darkness.

The boy tried to stay calm. He knew that their threats of extending his punishment were very real, and he wanted to spend as little time in that dreaded room as possible.

He tried to focus on thinking about good things. Ice cream. Carnivals. Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with no crust. Those were the things he loved, the things that brought him joy. Even in the basement room, thoughts of the things in his life that brought him happiness diminished the pain in his limbs, and helped him to forget the darkness that held him in its maw.

A tickling on his right foot eradicated all positive thought. The sensation began to move up his leg.

A spider. The boy hated spiders more than anything in the world. The way they looked, the way they

crawled, their multitude of dreadful little legs – everything about them filled him with revulsion. As it climbed higher, moving closer to his groin, adhering to his bare skin like a sticky

acrobat, he felt a groan worming its way up out of his throat. He couldn’t stop it. In a moment, it was free, and it was followed closely by hoards of uncontrollable screams.

He renewed his struggles with a frenzy seen only among the victims of the most cruel torture, fighting for freedom as if his soul depended on it. The chair rocked wildly, and he cried out as it pitched backward. As his head hit the cold cement of the basement floor, the room darkened further, and the crawling sensation of the spider began to fade.

As consciousness seeped away, he thought he could hear someone whispering in his ear, someone who wanted to help him, to take his pain away, to make his parents pay for what they had done.

Yes, he thought. Yes, please help me. Please help. . .Nothingness.

#

The tiny office was hot and packed with junk. Stacks of boxes and papers towered everywhere, almost hitting the ceiling in places. Jackson sweat like a slob, and his head throbbed. He massaged his forehead with his fingertips, hoping to god that this headache wouldn’t turn into another migraine.

“Tell me again why you can’t grant me access.”The man who sat before Jackson was six five, about two forty. His face was round and full

of pockmarks, and he smelled like rotten cabbage. His loosely knotted purple necktie spilled over his desk as he leaned forward menacingly, meaty hands balled into fists.

Jackson tried to keep his composure. He swallowed hard, mindful that the material under his armpits was completely soaked.

“I told you, Miller” he said, trying to keep his arms straight at his sides, “I don’t have the authority.”

“Bullshit. You’re the systems admin. You can do whatever the hell you want.”“No, I can’t. I can’t give administrative privilege to anyone without Richardson’s approval.

As it is, only two of us have it--me, and my assistant.”“I don’t give a damn who has it. I need it. I have things to do for Richardson.”“But when I asked him, he said that he never gave you an assignment where you would

need--”“Can it,” Miller said. “I’ll make this easy on you--give me what I need, or things are going

to become very unpleasant for you.”Jackson swallowed. Though Miller was not his direct superior, he had a lot of clout with the

other managers. If they all got together and started telling Richardson horrible things about him. . . well, he didn’t want to think about it. He also did not want to think about what might happen if Miller showed up on his front stoop one night.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Jackson said with an audible croak.Miller nodded. “See that it happens. I need it today.”

#

Jackson played around online, idly flitting from one website to the next. He had not given Miller the access he’d requested. He had talked to Richardson about it again, but Richardson had just given him the ‘we already went over this’ speech. He’d opened his mouth to tell Richardson about Miller’s threats, but had closed it when he thought of what would happen if the giant man came after him in the parking lot.

He massaged his forehead again, his hopes of avoiding another migraine shrinking further as each minute passed.

That bastard. I hope he burns in hell.Miller had always bullied him about network issues, and Jackson had caved every time.Why am I such a pushover?

No one had ever taken him seriously, even as a child. All of the other kids had always seemed to sense his inner weakness, his fear of conflict. They had made a living horror of his younger school days, and little had changed in high school and college.

He supposed that his parents were at the root of the problem. His mother and father were sullen, merciless individuals. Though they had always regarded themselves as far too patrician to resort to physical punishments, the mental turmoil of Jackson’s early childhood castigations stayed with him in a way that no bodily scar ever could.

And the migraines. Those have stayed with me, too. Ever since I got that concussion. Ever since that day, in that goddamn room.

If nothing else, Jackson had to admit that their unique approach to discipline was ruthlessly effective. To this day, he seldom made an important or life-altering decision without the blessing of his parents. He hadn’t even started dating until his parents had found a woman that met with their approval.

That woman, a rail-thin specimen with wiry black hair and cruel eyes, was now his wife, and she dominated him every bit as much as his parents.

And she’s cheating on me.Half a dozen times last month someone with a blocked number had called and hung up.

Curious, he’d checked his wife’s cell phone bill, and had found that she regularly dialed an unfamiliar number, always at times when he was either at work or out of town.

He had called the number and a man had answered. Not knowing what to say, he’d just hung up.

But that doesn’t matter right now. I need to figure out what to do with Miller.He knew that he would have to call him and tell him about Richardson’s final verdict, but he

was afraid. He couldn’t bear to be screamed at or threatened again.Damn him. Damn him and everyone else.Jackson picked up his mouse and threw it. It bounced off the monitor and hit the keyboard.

The screen went dark.Jackson groaned as he reached forward. He switched the monitor off, then turned it back on.

To his great relief, the picture slowly returned. Everything was just as he’d left it, except that a new page had opened up in his browser.

The page was extremely simple; it consisted of nothing more than a black background with a single red link in the center. The link read: ‘Purge.’

Jackson felt a deep chill envelope his body as he gazed upon it. Though there was nothing about the page that was overtly odd or threatening, something about it seemed wrong.

He hit the back button, but the page remained on the screen. He clicked the red “x” in the upper right-hand corner, but the window stayed open. Ctrl, alt, delete also yielded nothing. His anxiety grew as he noticed that the address bar was blank.

What the hell is this?As he stared at the page, he realized that its simplicity was not as prevalent as he had first

thought. The page’s deep black was unlike any computer-generated hue he had ever seen; in fact, the more he looked, the less black it seemed. It carried hints of dark grey, and red, and blue, interspersed in a manner that seemed to create a slow, swirling effect. The movement seemed more implied than existent, and he could not for the life of him figure out if what he was experiencing was real or imagined. The link was also unusual, in that it possessed a subtle shimmer, like a blazing fire seen through a haze of grey smoke. He had never seen such effects replicated on any other web site, and he’d been in the IT game for almost ten years.

Almost imperceptibly, his hand crept towards the mouse. As the white cursor cut a swath across the page, he wondered why he was so fascinated, so curious.

Because I have to know. This page is special, and I have to know why.His fear momentarily forgotten, he clicked on the link. It blazed with a furious crimson light

before it disappeared, replaced with a new page, nearly identical to the first. Rather than a link, a blank text field sat in its center. The phrase ADVERSARY’S NAME

appeared above the field the same shimmering text as the link. What is this site? Where the hell have I gone?His fear returned as suddenly as it had left, and he reached down to hit the power button on

the tower. He stopped when words began to blink into existence, one by one, slowly covering the empty space below the field.

TYPE IN THE NAME OF YOUR ADVERSARY. THE PRICE OF REVENGE IS SMALL.

Jackson waited. No more words came.What the hell?The words disappeared, then began to fill the screen once more.TYPE IN THE NAME OF YOUR ADVERSARY. THE PRICE OF REVENGE IS

SMALL.He thought again of hitting the power button, but the screen held his gaze. The implication

behind the two sentences intrigued him, and he felt almost hypnotized by the way in which they emerged and disappeared. Like the site’s initial programming, the code that governed the words seemed to have been written by someone with knowledge that went far beyond conventional techniques. They flashed into existence one after the other, lighting up the page’s background as if with starlight. When they disappeared, the darkness of the background was complete, profound in the manner of black holes and broken worlds.

Without knowing exactly why he did it, he rested the tips of his fingers on the keyboard and began to type.

FRANK MILLER.As soon as he entered the name, a new page emerged. When Jackson saw the photos that sat

side-by-side in its center, he recoiled, breath hissing as he drew it in. The photo on the left was a close-up of a human hand, red with blood, ragged stump where the index finger used to be. The right photograph depicted a severed finger, lying next to a blood-spattered kitchen knife.

Jackson blinked, not believing what he saw. The hand in the left picture was his. He was certain of it. There was the same platinum wedding band, the same scar across his knuckles that he had gotten when he’d fallen down the stairs as a child. There were words beneath the photos, and he shook violently as he read them. They were blood red and starkly lacking the shimmering beauty of every word that had appeared before them.

THE SACRIFICE IS SMALL. THE REWARD GREAT.This time, Jackson didn’t bother with ctrl, alt, delete. He bent down and tore the plug from

the power strip.

#

Meredith wasn’t home when he walked in the door. Her car was gone, and there was no note.

Guess I’m on my own again.

For the past two weeks, she had been conspicuously absent each evening, from the time Jackson got home until roughly nine o’clock at night. He’d asked her where she’d been going, and she had told him to mind his own business.

Her cell phone was also mysteriously inoperable during her times of absence. Whenever he would try to call her, it would go straight into her voicemail. Her explanation for this strange turn of events was that her phone had been ‘acting up.’

Jackson was hurt, and not simply by the prospect of his wife having an affair, which was something he’d come to terms with long ago. What he found upsetting was the fact that she was growing ever more blatant in the way that she conducted herself.

Next thing you know, she’ll bring the guy home and start going at it right in front of me.He changed out of his work clothes, heated up a frozen pizza, and took a few slices into his

office. He booted up the computer, intent on finishing some work. Between throbbing in his head and his stress over the incident with Miller, he hadn’t gotten much done at the office.

When the screen lit up before him, he nearly dropped his plate. It was the same page he had seen at work, ghastly photos and all. He jerked his hand back from the mouse as if it were red hot.

This isn’t possible.The text beneath the photographs began to flicker, slowly at first, then more rapidly. THE SACRIFICE IS SMALL. THE REWARD GREAT.What the hell is going on?The velocity of the flashes quickened, nearing strobe-light intensity. THE SACRIFICE IS SMALL. THE REWARD GREAT.He smelled something acrid, and noticed a tendril of smoke rising from the tower. With a

small cry, he leapt to the ground and ripped the plug from the wall, sending his plateful of pizza to the floor.

His whole body shook. With trembling hands, he picked up the pizza slices, along with the plate. He took them all back to the kitchen, tossing the pizza in the garbage and setting the plate down in the sink. He turned to leave, and noticed with a start that there was something lying on the counter.

It was one of the knives that normally sat in the block next to the stove.That wasn’t there before. That counter was completely empty.He stared at it, and heard the words he had read only moments before echo through his

mind.THE SACRIFICE IS SMALL. THE REWARD GREAT.He looked behind him, nearly convinced that he would see someone standing there. The

words had been clear, precise; real in a way that only actual sound could match. What was more, Jackson was almost sure that they had not been a product of his own thoughts. Their intonation had been different--not at all like his voice.

Not like any voice.The words came again, through his mind, like a mantra.THE SACRIFICE IS SMALL. THE REWARD GREAT.Suddenly, a vague memory began to take shape, transporting him back to his childhood,

back to the basement room that had been the site of his punishments. He remembered falling backwards in the chair, hitting his head, feeling himself slipping into unconsciousness. And he remembered a voice.

My god. That voice. It’s the same voice.

“What if it’s true?” he heard himself whisper. “What if this works?”Inexplicably his fear began to melt away, replaced by something else. It was a sensation

that he had never felt before. It filled his mind, driving him forward.He slowly made his way over to where the knife lay. He picked it up and studied it, and felt

a tear roll down his cheek. He thought of his childhood, his parents, his wife. He thought about Miller, about his job, about how he was treated in the office, at home and everywhere else. He recalled all of the unkind words, the unfairness of life. The misery that he’d become so adept at suppressing rose from the bowels of his person, choking and squeezing, forcing more and more tears from his eyes.

Why? He thought. Why me? Why does everything always happen to me? He pressed the razor edge of the cold steel to the index finger of his left hand. It’s always been me. Shit on every time. If God has a toilet, I live at the bottom of it.He pushed down harder.This can change everything. I’m sure of it.He hesitated only briefly before he began to cut, gritting his teeth as the blade clove through

his skin. Blood splashed from the wound, painting the counter as he sawed vigorously back and forth. His arm began to cramp with the effort of carving through the bone. Tears continued to stream from his eyes, their silvery drops mixing with the growing puddle of blood. His teeth began to hurt from clenching them so tightly.

Miller, you fuck. You asshole fuck. Your pain will be worse. God, let his pain be worse.His frenzy with the blade grew and he sawed faster, and he nearly collapsed with relief when

the knife hit the granite of the countertop beneath. With quaking hands, he set the blade down, and looked at the mess. The blood. The knife.

His finger, lying on its side like a tiny corpse. “It was worth it,” he gasped, grabbing a fistful of paper towels. “It was all worth it.”

#

The folks at the ER did not seem to believe his story about the accident with the lawn mower. The cut was far too clean, they’d said.

“What really happened?” a concerned doctor had pressed him. “Did someone do this to you? Anything you say is safe with us – if you call the police, we’ll help to make sure no one ever finds out about it.”

Jackson had reassured the doctor that his own stupidity at having reached under the mower when the blade was still running was the only cause of his injury. He had departed the ER knowing that the doctors were not convinced.

That doesn’t matter, he thought. What matters is that they treated me.He had spent a long time rehearsing the story, not only for the people at the ER, but for his

wife. As it turned out, the ER staff were the only ones who would need convincing.His wife did not come home that night.More and more, he thought as he popped one of the Vicodins he had just received from the

local pharmacy. She pushes me more and more. Just like Miller. Just like fucking Miller.

#

Jackson was exhausted when he set foot in the office the next day. Though he had slept all night, his sleep had been restless. The strange feeling that had settled on him as he’d stared at the knife had grown, unaffected by the drugs. It had followed him into the realm of dreams, gnawing at his consciousness.

It was with him now, at work. And they can tell, too, he thought as he made his way back to his office. They can all tell.

The way they’re looking at me. . .it’s like they can read my thoughts.Indeed, his coworkers all seemed jumpy that morning. They flitted like thieves from cubicle

to cubicle, whispering to one another.They’re probably talking about me.Jackson clutched the bandaged stump of his finger, trying to ignore them.When he reached his desk, he scarcely had a chance to sit before his assistant burst through

the door.“Did you hear?” he gasped. “Did you hear what happened?”Jackson’s eyes grew wide, and his stomach clenched. He thrust his hand under the desk,

trying to conceal the bandage.“No,” he said cautiously. “What is it?”“Miller’s dead! He got T-boned by a drunk driver last night!”Jackson’s heart raced.“Really?” “Really! It was on the news this morning and everything!”The price of revenge is small.He glanced down at what was left of his finger. It still throbbed.“Miller’s dead?” he said, almost to himself.His assistant nodded vigorously. “Dead. Shit, from what I’ve heard, the body isn’t even in one piece. He got hit pretty bad.”Jackson nodded almost solemnly, half-convinced that the thundering in his chest had

intensified to a point that made it audible.“Could I have a moment, please?” he said. “I. . .I need some time to think.”His assistant nodded, and closed the door as he left the office.Jackson stared at the dark wood of the door. Strangely enough, he felt no surprise at the

news. Even stranger, there was no remorse.I knew it would work. I knew it.Excitement bubbled in the depths of his soul, and his hands and arms tingled. The odd

sensation that had clung to his mind since yesterday was stronger than ever, heightened to proportions Jackson would have thought unimaginable. Though he had not been able to identify it before, there was no mistaking it now.

Hunger.

#

His windows had grown black with the coming of night, and he meticulously closed his blinds. He poked his head out the door, noting that the only other person who was still there was just making her way out.

When he was certain that she had gone, he turned his attention to his monitor.You’ll be back. I know you will. I’m here. Tell me what you want.

Nothing happened. His screen remained lit with the colors of his wallpaper: a sunset view of Lake Michigan.

He tapped the side of his monitor.Come on. I gave you what you wanted. I know you want more, just like me.Still, nothing.He grabbed his mouse, preparing to do a restart.The cursor would not move.Damn thing’s frozen.He hit ctrl, alt, delete. For a moment, nothing happened. Then his internet browser started

up, taking him directly to a black page with a familiar red link. He clicked it eagerly. When the next screen came up, he typed the name slowly, relishing each keystroke.

MEREDITH JACKSON.He did not even flinch when he saw the two photos, now slightly different, that instantly

appeared before him once he had entered the name.This time, all of the fingers were missing from the hand.

#

Jackson’s second trip to the ER was far more challenging. Knowing full well that a visit to the same hospital to which he’d just gone would put him in a very bad position, he had been forced to drive a half hour across town to the next nearest facility. Faint with blood loss, he’d had a great deal of trouble controlling his car, and had considered it a miracle that he had managed to make it there at all.

Once inside, things got even worse. He was rushed to treatment, and had scarcely been given time to stare at his bandaged hand when he was accosted by a trio of doctors. The lawnmower story had not worked in the slightest. Five fingers, all cleanly severed, could not possibly have been the result of a brush with a spinning lawnmower blade.

Jackson knew the story was not terribly credible, but he could think of no better explanation. He did the best he could to sound convincing, to no avail. The doctors phoned the police, and Jackson told the same story to the officer who wound up on the scene.

After spending three hours subject to intermittent interrogations, he was discharged. The police could do nothing; they had no proof that he had mutilated himself, and nothing he had said had implicated anyone else. The officer had been quite dissatisfied with the proceeding, vowing to secure a search warrant for his home.

When it was over, he drove home as quickly as possible. The fingers, which he had placed in the kitchen garbage can, had to be disposed of in a more permanent manner. As he sped towards his destination, he was nearly unaware of the pain that shot through his hand.

The hunger was far more powerful.

#

Jackson awoke at 5:13am to the sound of the phone ringing. The Vicondin he’d taken before bed had still not worn off, and for a minute he thought the electronic warbling was completely imaginary. After a moment, he realized what the source of the noise was, and he fumbled with the receiver before pulling it from its cradle.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Jackson?”“Yes?”“This is Doctor Mattheson at Trinity Lutheran calling regarding your wife.”Jackson’s heart froze. He was suddenly wide awake.“Yes? What is it?”“We’d like you to come down here as soon as possible.”“But what is it?”“I’d rather not discuss it over the phone. Please come in, so we can talk. Do you need

directions?” “Where did you say you are? Trinity Lutheran?” “Yes.”Jackson had no idea where that was. Obviously, it was someplace out of town.“I guess I will need directions,” he said quietly.

#

Jackson drove at a leisurely pace. He knew why the doctor had called, just as he had known what the news about Miller would be, even before his assistant had had a chance to fully deliver it.

He gazed out the window, smiling faintly. The hunger roiled inside of him.It’s a force, he thought. It’s a force more powerful than anyone can imagine. And it needs

me.“And I need it,” he whispered to himself.

#

When he arrived, the ER was nearly empty. The only other person present was a man in a flannel shirt who sat in one of the plastic waiting-room chairs, silently sobbing into his hands.

“Mr. Jackson?”Jackson looked up, and was greeted with the visage of a grim-looking doctor.“Yes. That’s me.”“I’m doctor Mattheson,” he said, extending a hand. Jackson reached forward, puzzled at the

sudden startled expression on the doctor’s face. When he realized what hand he’d put forth, he hastily brought it to his side, extending his other hand.

“Lawnmower accident,” he mumbled.“I have some rather startling news,” the doctor said, apparently not concerned with the

reason for the bandages.“What is it?”Mattheson sighed. “She’s dead. I’m so sorry, Mr. Jackson.”Jackson tried to act surprised.“Dead? How? What happened?”“She was at a friend’s house when she suffered a massive heart attack. By the time the

paramedics arrived, there was nothing that could be done.”The crying man stood up and walked over, wiping his eyes and obviously trying to get

himself under control.

“I’m George Wilkins. I’m a. . .friend of your wife’s. I was there when she passed.”Jackson eyed him up and down, amused. The man looked like a lumberjack; he wore a pair

of dirty, faded jeans and a battered pair of work boots. His face sported a grizzled beard, and his dark, thinning hair fell in wisps around his forehead.

“So you’re the guy she’s been fucking?” he said quietly.The man’s entire frame seemed to sag, and his breath hitched.Jackson waited, saying nothing. “I. . .I’m sorry,” Wilkins said, face screwing up.Jackson looked at Dr. Matteson, whose mouth couldn’t have hung wider had it been secured

with a ten pound weight.“Sorry,” he said. “There’s no need for you to get dragged into this.”Mattheson quickly checked himself.“It’s quite alright.”Jackson looked back at Wilkins, and was about to say something more, when Mattheson

spoke up again.“The coroner will be here in half an hour. You’ll need to identify the body.”Jackson nodded. “I understand.”

#

The hunger had grown steadily since Jackson had begun his trip to the emergency room. It grew even now, as he raced home to his computer.

“George Wilkins,” he whispered to himself. “George Wilkins. Lover-boy.”It had become a beast, out of control. It ate at him, demanding more, driving him towards a

fate he did not understand.And he didn’t care.I just want more. For the first time in my life, I can have something. Something I want,

something just for me. My parents can’t take it. Lover-boy can’t take it. Meredith can’t take it. Fucking Miller, that bastard, he can’t take this either. This is my hunger. Mine to do with as I please.

For some reason, Jackson was reminded of a moment from his childhood. His father had just brought home a new bike for him. Jackson had subtly hinted about his desire for the bike for months. He had not dared to beg, since a three-hour stint in that dreadful, god-awful room had convinced him that nagging his parents was not a good idea.

When he had first seen the bike, he had run forward to ride it. His father had grabbed him before he’d gotten far.

“Not so fast,” he’d said. “There is something that you need to understand before you hop on and pedal off. This is my bike. I paid for it. I own it. When you ride it, you are a guest on my bike. Should I decide that you are no longer worthy of using my bike, I will take it and throw it in the garbage. Remember that. You do as I say, and you can use my bike. Behave badly, and you’ll never see it again.”

Jackson pressed the accelerator a bit harder, and the car sped forward.He had gotten the same speech with the car when he’d turned sixteen. Even after he had

finished college, his parents still had not allowed him to transfer the title. “If you do something I don’t like,” his father had told him on graduation day, “I’m taking it back. How would you like that? Try getting to work with no car.”

He hadn't actually owned an automobile in his own name until the old car had broken down and he had been forced to buy a new one.

“Fuck you, dad,” he said through clenched teeth, ignoring the tears that ran down his cheeks. “Fuck you.”

#

The computer took far too long to boot up, and the black screen with the red link could not appear quickly enough. With only one functional hand, it took Jackson an infuriatingly long time to type in the name GEORGE WILKINS. The hunger was cataclysmic in its desire, like a cocaine binge gone completely out of control.

Jackson panted as he stared at the screen, and at the name he had typed in the box. With a hand that shook almost too violently to use, he reached towards the keyboard again.

COMMA.THOMAS JACKSON. COMMA.FRANCINE JACKSON.Fuck you, mom. Fuck you, dad. You’ll see what you put me through. You’ll see, and you’ll

pay. Your punishment will be the worst by far.The photos on the next page did not shock him. After all, he was expecting them. Though he did not understand much about that which

aided him, he knew that it, like him, had certain wants. Certain needs. He’d known that the death and torment of the people he hated the most would carry the highest price.

There he was, full body shot, both legs nothing but bloody stumps, left arm completely gone all the way up to the shoulder. His skin was deathly pale, and his eyes were glazed and stagnant pools.

A bloody hacksaw sat in the center of the photo on the right. Jackson did not own a hacksaw, and was thinking of where he could go to get one, when he heard a thump come from behind him. He swiveled in the chair, and saw that something lay in the center of the office floor.

It was a brand-new saw, and its cold steel blade gleamed in the light from the overhead fixture.

A twisted grin spread across his lips, distorting his features, morphing his face into a mask of vicious glee that would have appeared completely foreign to anyone who knew him.

Mine, he thought, reaching forward. All mine.

The Hunted

The streets were nearly empty, for which Joe was thankful. It had been a long day, and he was in no mood to deal with traffic.

“That was certainly enlightening,” said Melissa. She glared out the passenger side window, looking somewhat frightening in the shadows cast by the overhead street lights.

“Yeah, it was,” said Joe.“I had no idea that we could afford so much.”“I didn’t either.”“It’s really not fair,” she said as she lit a cigarette. “There’s no way that we’d be able to

make payments on a loan that big.”“These people always want to approve you for more than you can afford to spend.”Melissa rolled down the window and ashed her cigarette. “What did he say that our monthly

payment would be with a loan that size?”“Twelve eighty three.”“That’s crazy.”“I know it is. There’s no way we’re borrowing that much.”Joe flicked on his turn signal and slowed down at the approaching intersection.“It’s because my credit is so good,” he said as he turned left. “That’s the only reason that

we’re approved for that kind of money.”“I thought he said that income was a factor, too.”“It obviously can’t be that much of a factor.”Melissa took a drag and blew the smoke out the window. “Maybe we should just keep renting,” she said. “Maybe we’re better off just trying to find a

deal on a two bedroom.”“I’d agree with that if we could find a decent two bedroom in this area for under a thousand

a month.”“There has to be something. Maybe we just haven’t looked hard enough.”“We’ve looked everywhere, Melissa. There’s nothing that cheap. For the amount of money

it costs to rent, we’re better off finding a condo and at least owning something.”“Yeah, but I’m not comfortable making those kinds of payments every month. Maybe we

should just stay where we are.”Joe shook his head.“No way. That apartment is too small. Besides, it’s a dump.” Joe turned onto route 58, the last leg of their journey towards home. Like every other road

in town, 58 was nearly empty.“We’ll hardly be able to go out anymore,” said Melissa.“I know. But isn’t it worth it? Isn’t it more important for us to own our own place?”“I guess so, but you still can’t forget that we’ll need to get out of the house every once in a

while. If we stay in all the time, we’ll go crazy.”“We don’t have to stop going out, we just need to be careful about how we spend our

money. Going to see a movie is a perfectly good alternative to spending fifty bucks at a bar.”“Yeah, but – Joe, look out!”Joe’s eyes widened as he noticed the animal in the road directly in front of them. He

slammed on the brakes, listening to the tires screech as the car slid forward. He could feel the brake pedal twitching madly beneath his foot as the ABS kicked in, and the stench of burning

rubber filled his nostrils. Apparently aware that it was about to become flattened, the animal looked up in surprise.

Despite his fight to stay in control of the car, Joe couldn’t help but stare at the tiny face that gazed back at him. It looked almost simian, yet it was so small that it was hard to tell. Joe squinted to get a better look, and could have sworn that the animal’s eyes were glowing red. In a flash it was gone, off into the darkness beside the road.

As the car came to a halt, Joe turned to look at Melissa.“What was that thing?” he said.“I don’t know. It almost looked like a little monkey.”“But it’s eyes. . .it couldn’t have been a monkey. Besides, what the hell is a monkey doing

around here?”“Maybe it’s someone’s pet.”“I don’t know about that,” said Joe. “Who on earth keeps a monkey as a pet?”“A lot of people.”“I’ve never heard of that before.”“What’s that?” Melissa said, ignoring his comment. She pointed towards the windshield,

and Joe followed her finger to the spot just in front of the car, where the asphalt was lit up in the glow of the headlights. Something furry lay in the road.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Did I hit it?”“I don’t think so.”Joe unfastened his seatbelt.“What are you doing?”“I’m going to see what it is. If it’s hurt, maybe it’s not too late to get it to a vet.” Joe started to get out of the car, and Melissa followed suit. He walked forward, squinting

against the brightness of the headlights as he tried to get a better look at what it was. When he was a few feet away from it, he stopped dead.

“Jesus, Joe,” said Melissa.Joe said nothing. He merely looked at the barely recognizable tangle of fur and blood that

lay sprawled across the pavement. It appeared to be a cat, or what was left of one; the body was completely ravaged. Its ribs stuck out every which way and its entrails, steaming in the cool night air, spilled out from its sides like jelly from a doughnut. The animal’s head was the only thing that remained intact. It gazed vacuously at the black sky, with an expression upon its face that bore disturbing similarities to a look of sheer terror.

“What could have done this?” asked Melissa.“I don’t know.”“I think I’m going to be sick,” she said.Joe wasn’t feeling the greatest himself. He looked away from the cat, hoping that it wasn’t

too late to stifle the vomit he felt rising in his throat.“Let’s get out of here,” said Melissa. “There’s nothing that we can do for it.”Joe nodded, and turned to walk back to the car.As he did, something in a cluster of bushes near the side of the road caught his eye. He

stopped to take a better look and, seeing nothing, kept moving forward. He frowned as he opened the door and got in. For a split second, he could have sworn that he’d seen a tiny pair of red eyes gleaming in the darkness.

#

“Do you think it was another animal?” Melissa asked as she tossed her cigarette butt out the window.

“It definitely could have been. It sure as hell wasn’t a car that did that.”“Maybe it was the monkey,” she said. “Maybe that’s what ate it.”“Monkeys don’t eat cats.”“Well, maybe it wasn’t a monkey. Maybe it just looked like a monkey.”“It could have been a raccoon or an opossum,” said Joe. “That would make a little bit more

sense.”“But how could one of those have done it? I doubt that either of them is fast enough to

catch a cat.”“It could have been anything,” said Joe. “It ran out of the road too fast for us to really see

what it was.”“But its eyes . . .I’ve never seen eyes like that.”Joe thought about telling her what he’d seen in the bushes beside the road, but decided

against it. After all, he still wasn’t completely sure that he’d seen anything, and he didn’t want to sound stupid.

“I’m sure that it was just a trick of the light,” he said. “Animals’ eyes can look pretty weird when you shine headlights at them.”

Joe turned off Route 58, and headed East on Woodlawn. They were nearly home. “I feel sorry for the cat,” he said.“So do I. I hope that it really was dead before it got eaten.”Joe thought about how horrible it would feel to be devoured alive. He couldn’t imagine

what it would be like to have his arms and legs chewed off, or to be disemboweled and feasted upon by some wild animal.

“I hope that it was, too.”

#

Joe fit into a category of people that he commonly referred to as “the working dead.” He had recently gotten a job as an accounting clerk for a small industrial supplies company, and he hated every minute of it. Though not a fervent believer in the supernatural, the afterlife, or sightings of Jesus in tortilla chips, Joe could swear that a small portion of his soul was taken from him each time he sat down at his desk. He hated accounting, and he hated the world of corporate B.S. that he was forced to submit to almost every day of his life.

Music was his true passion. Unfortunately, he was a lousy musician. He owned an electric guitar, which he played whenever he could. Melissa always did her best to encourage him, even though the tones he produced were typically sour enough to curdle milk.

“You’ll get better,” she’d always said. “Some day, you’ll be great.”Joe knew that he’d never be great. He knew that the only thing positive about his musical

endeavors was the fact that he wasn’t deluded enough to think that he had talent. He appreciated what Melissa was trying to do, but he knew that nothing would ever change the fact that he had all the musical ability of a garbage disposal.

Nevertheless, he didn’t allow his shattered dreams of rockstardom to cloud reality. He worked hard, in the hopes that some day he’d at least work his way up high enough to make someone else do the menial crap that he was assigned on a day-to-day basis. Until then, he’d be

forced to count down the hours until each day was done, just as he was doing at that particular moment.

As soon as the digital readout on his little desk clock hit five p.m., he threw on his jacket and raced to his car. He was home in less than fifteen minutes.

“How was work?” Melissa asked as he came in.“Lousy. How was school?”“It was OK.”“Something smells good,” he said.“I made a roast. We haven’t had one in a while.”For the first time that day, Joe smiled. “Sounds great. Let me get changed so we can eat.”

#

When dinner was over, Melissa cleaned up the kitchen and started on her homework. Joe walked into the bedroom and grabbed a book off his nightstand. He had picked it up at the drugstore a couple of days before because he thought that the cover had looked cool. It depicted a fanged monster with blood dripping from its mouth standing over a dead girl.

Whether or not the story contained within the book was any good, Joe had yet to discover. He hadn’t had a spare moment to read the book since he’d bought it. As he walked back out to the couch and sat down next to his girlfriend, he found himself hoping yet again that he hadn’t wasted his money.

Joe picked up the remote and turned the TV off. “Hey!” said Melissa, looking up from the huge textbook she was reading. “I was watching

that!”“I thought you were doing your homework.”“I am.”“Then why do you want the TV on?”“You know I can’t focus without some background noise. Quiet rooms drive me nuts.”“I’m not going to be able to read with that thing on,” said Joe.“Well, I was here first. If you can’t concentrate, why don’t you go in the bedroom?”“Because I like sitting on the couch when I read.”Melissa shrugged. “Sorry, but I need to get this done. If you can’t read with the TV on,

you’ll just have to go someplace else.”“Fine,” Joe said, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. “I’m going for a walk.”

#

Joe shivered as he walked down the street. Winter was fast approaching, and the air had taken on a nasty chill. He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, wishing that he had put his gloves on before he left.

He walked to the end of the block and turned the corner. Though he had originally planned on staying out for a while, the cold air had convinced him that a trip around the block was more than enough. He quickened his pace a bit, resigning himself to the fact that he would just have to spend the rest of the night watching whatever crap Melissa decided to put on.

A few more minutes, and he was back at the entrance to the apartment complex. He turned right, and started walking across the giant parking lot that serviced his building and four others. It was fairly well-lit, but there were a few corners of the lot where the light from the overhead lamps did not reach.

As Joe passed through one of the darker areas, he heard something. He stopped walking, and listened more closely. There was a scuffling sound coming from beneath one of the cars.

It’s probably just a cat, he thought. He resumed walking, and had only gone a few steps when the sound came again. It was

closer this time. Joe turned around and looked at the cars parked nearest to him. He took a few steps back, on the off chance that what he had heard was not a cat after all, but some type of wild animal.

As he stood and looked at the cars the noise came a third time. It was accompanied by a brief flash of movement, as something ran out from underneath one car and disappeared under the one next to it.

Joe made sure he was a safe distance away before crouching down to get a better look. As he peered under the row of cars, he saw two beady little eyes, glinting in the weak light of the overhead lamps.

“Ugh,” he said as he stood up, wishing he hadn’t looked. At the same time, what he had seen lent even more credence to his arguments about why he and Melissa needed to find a better place to live. Rats in the parking lot were a definite sign that the place was going to shit.

Joe made his way across the remainder of the lot until he reached the front entrance to his building. He thrust his hand into his pocket and groped around until he found his keys. “Goddamn vermin,” he mumbled as he stepped into the front entranceway.

#

Melissa was still in the sitting room when Joe walked in.“That was quick,” she said.“It was cold out.”He sat down on the couch next to her.“You know what I saw in the parking lot?” he said. “A rat.”Melissa wrinkled her nose.“You’ve got to be joking.”“Trust me, I’m not.”“Where did you see it?”“It was sitting underneath one of the cars.”“Are you sure it was a rat?” she asked hopefully. “It wasn’t. . . a squirrel, or something?”Joe shook his head. “No such luck.”He leaned back on the couch and put his feet up on the coffee table.“Don’t do that,” said Melissa. Joe took his feet down hastily.“Sorry.” Melissa went back to reading her book, and Joe turned his attention to the TV. Melissa’s

usual choice of awful programming flashed across the screen; on that day, it was a show in which three middle-aged women, all of whose faces spoke of equally generous amounts of

makeup and plastic surgery, sat around in a restaurant yapping about a man that they’d all slept with.

“Do you mind if I put something else on?” said Joe.“I’d rather you didn’t. I like this show.”“But you aren’t even watching it.”“Sure, I am. I’m listening to what they’re saying while I read.”This time, the urge to roll his eyes won out.“I can’t believe that you watch this garbage.”“You’re just angry because I got here first.”“I’m not angry. I’m just upset that you can’t share the damn TV.”“Joe, will you please stop bitching? I can’t get this done if you keep talking to me.”“Fine,” he said, snatching his book off the coffee table. “I’ll just read in the damn

bedroom.”Melissa said nothing in return, and Joe stalked out of the sitting area. Reading in bed was not something that he had ever enjoyed. Trying to read while propped

up gave him a stiff neck, and he always got a head rush if he tried to read while laying flat. Nevertheless, he sprawled out on the bed and dove into his book, continuing into the story even as Melissa finished her homework and came to bed hours later.

“You’ve been reading this whole time?” she asked.“Uh-huh.”“It must be very good.”“Yep.”“Are you going to have the light on much longer?”“I don’t know.”“Well, hurry up and finish. I can’t sleep with the light on.”“I was here first,” he said. “I’ll turn the light off when I’m ready.”Melissa glared at him, then flipped over and closed her eyes.

#

Joe did not sleep well that night. He kept having nightmares about the monster from the book. It chased him from dream to dream, dragging a bloody corpse with it. As the dreams progressed, the corpse changed. One minute it was the girl from the cover of the book, the next minute it was Melissa, then it was back to the girl from the cover. Joe was thankful when his alarm finally went off, rousing him from his troubled sleep.

After giving himself a few minutes to wake up, he headed into the bathroom and showered. When he got out, he dressed himself and ate breakfast. On his way out the door, he glanced back towards the bedroom. Melissa was still asleep, as her first class wasn’t for another two-and-a-half hours.

Must be nice, Joe thought as he closed the door behind him.He walked quickly across the parking lot towards his car. When he reached it, he began

fishing his keys out of his pocket. He had gotten them out most of the way before he realized that a stray thread from his pants had gotten wrapped around the key ring. As he tried to untangle them, they slipped from his hand and clattered to the pavement.

“Shit,” he muttered as he bent to pick them up. He reached out a hand to grab them, then froze. A giant dead rat lay on the ground in front of him.

Joe took an involuntary step backward, gagging. The thing had been savaged to such an extent that the majority of the remains were nothing more than red, pasty splotches of guts and fur. The only thing that was still intact was its head. It lay a foot or two away from the rest of the gore, sitting in a pool of blood that had undoubtedly flowed from the torn remnants of its neck. It was upside-down, and Joe could see its yellow teeth protruding from its gaping mouth.

He quickly snatched up his keys and walked the rest of the way to his car, resolving to work extra hard that day.

The sooner I get a promotion, the sooner I can get us out of this craphole, he thought.

#

When Joe got home that night, dinner was ready as always. Melissa had boiled some bratwurst, which were Joe’s favorite. As they sat down to eat, Joe talked about how his day had gone, and listened to Melissa talk about some of the trouble she was having in one of her classes.

“Honestly,” Joe said. “I can’t wait until you’re through. We need the money. I’m having a hell of a time holding everything together myself.”

Melissa stopped chewing her food and glared at him. “Thanks a lot,” she said.“What? What did I say?”“It wasn’t what you said. It’s how you said it. You made it sound like I don’t do a damn

thing around here.”“I didn’t say that. All I said was that it’s hard for me to hold things together.”“You’re not the only one holding things together, Joe. I cook, I clean, I shop for groceries, I

take your clothes to the cleaners, I do the laundry, and I still manage to find time to study. Trust me, this isn’t easy on me either.”

Melissa picked up her fork and attacked one of her bratwurst, shooting him another venomous glance. Joe remained silent. He knew that look, and he knew that was best off keeping his mouth shut until it went away.

When dinner was done, Melissa cleaned up the dishes. Joe grabbed the remote and turned on one of his shows before Melissa had a chance to sit down. Ironically, the speed with which he was able to get the TV on turned out to be for nothing. As soon as she was done with the kitchen, Melissa rummaged around in the cupboards under the sink and came up with a bottle of Windex and a roll of paper towels.

“What are you doing?” Joe asked.“I haven’t cleaned the windows in a month. They’re starting to get dirty.”

“Oh.”Melissa made her way around to each window in the sitting room, pulling the blinds up,

spraying and wiping the windows, then lowering the blinds again.“Do you have to do that now?” asked Joe. “Yes,” she said. “I won’t have time to do it tomorrow, and I want to make sure that it gets

done.”Fortunately for Joe, it didn’t take her long to do the windows in that part of the apartment.

When she was finished, she walked into the bedroom. Joe leaned back on the couch and felt himself beginning to relax a bit more. He could barely hear her in the other room, and could devote all of his attention to what was happening on the TV.

His concentration was shattered when Melissa started screaming. The sound of her agonized voice tore through the apartment, seeming to fill even the tiniest space. Every muscle in

Joe’s body went rigid, and he leapt to his feet so fast he nearly knocked over the coffee table. He raced towards the bedroom, Melissa’s screams still echoing in his ears.

“What happened?” he gasped as he burst in. “What’s wrong?”Melissa was standing across the room from one of the windows, pointing at it with a

trembling finger. The blinds were still up, and the bottle of Windex still sat on the sill. “What happened?” he asked again.“I. . .I saw eyes, Joe,” she stammered. “Red eyes. They looked at me while . . while I was

cleaning.”“Was it a rat?” said Joe. “Did one of those little bastards climb up here?” She shook her head vigorously.“No. No. It was something else. It’s eyes glowed. They were red, and they glowed.”“It’s OK,” he said. “It’s gone now.” Joe walked over and hugged her. Melissa remained paralyzed, still pointing at the window.“It was probably just a rat,” said Joe. “Their eyes look red sometimes.”“No,” she said, shaking him off. “You don’t understand. The eyes didn’t look red. They

were red. They looked . . .they looked like a devil’s eyes.”. “That’s nonsense,” he said. He crossed the room to the window, grabbed the bottle of

Windex, and shut the blinds. “There are no such things as devils.”“Yes there are,” she said. “The bible says so.”“I don’t care what the bible says,” said Joe. “It’s all bullshit.”Melissa hugged herself.“It looked like something from Hell.”“Stop it,” he said. “You’re freaking yourself out. It was only a rat.”“No, it wasn’t. It was too big to be a rat.”“You have no idea how big they can get. I saw a huge dead one in the parking lot today.”“I’m not stupid,” she said, finally lowering her arm. “I know what rats look like. This

wasn’t a rat.”“Then what was it?”“I told you, I don’t know!”“Would you please relax? I know how freaky it must have been to see some animal in the

window, but it’s over. It’s gone.”“It wasn’t an animal.”Joe sat down on the edge of the bed, trying to keep the aggravation from his voice. The way

she had screamed, Joe had thought she’d been seriously hurt. To find out that she’d reacted that way over some stupid animal wasn’t exactly doing great things for his overall state of mind.

“Listen. I know that whatever it was probably looked scary in the dark. But try to be logical. How could it have been anything other than an animal?”

“Don’t talk down to me,” she said. “You didn’t see its eyes. You can’t possibly understand.”

“Well, help me out. Describe it to me. What did it look like, exactly?”“I didn’t get a very good look at it,” she said. “I only saw its eyes, and its teeth. They were

sharp. It looked like . . .Jesus. It looked like that thing that you almost hit the other night.”Immediately, memories of the mutilated cat came flooding back into Joe’s mind. He’d

almost forgotten about it, as well as what he’d thought he’d seen in the bushes near the road.“Do you think that it could have been the same type of animal?” Melissa asked.“I guess it’s possible,” said Joe slowly.

“But how could it have gotten all the way up here?”“I don’t know.”“And what kind of animal could it be?”“I don’t know.” He thought about the rat he’d found that morning, and about how its remains had looked a

lot like the cat’s.“Do you suppose it’s dangerous?” she asked.“I don’t know. Maybe.” “Should we call the office and report it?”Joe shook his head.“We could, but do you really think they’d do anything about it? They haven’t done a damn

thing about the rats.”“I don’t like it, Joe. I don’t like knowing that thing is out there.”“I don’t either. We can’t sit here worrying about it, though. It’s gone now.”“But what if it comes back?”“I don’t think it can get in.”Melissa did not reply. She was still staring at the window.Joe stood up and walked back over to her.“Are you OK?” he asked. “Yeah. I guess.” “Are you sure?”“Yeah.”

“OK. Good. Everything’s fine.”“Are you alright?” she asked. “You look pale.”“Yeah. I’m fine. Do you want this back?” he asked, holding out the bottle of Windex.

Melissa shook her head. “I think I’ll finish the windows tomorrow.”

#

On the way to the car the next morning, Joe pointedly avoided looking anywhere that might conceal a rat, a raccoon or any other form of wildlife. He was through with animals for the time being.

When he reached the car, he took his keys out carefully, making sure that they were free from any entanglement. He was about to unlock the door, when he noticed that his rear tire was flat.

“Goddamit!” he said as he walked over to survey the damage. The side of the tire was intact, but the part that made contact with the road was not. Three

perfectly spaced cuts ran around the entire length of the tire, stopping where it rested against the ground.

“Goddamn little punks,” he said as he stood up. There was a group of long-haired, burnout-looking kids that regularly hung around in the

parking lot, and Joe was certain it had been one of them. They were about high school age, and every one of them looked like they had a long life of joblessness and drug addiction ahead of them.

Assholes. Why can’t they just leave everyone alone?

Joe resisted the urge to throw his keys to the ground as he walked back toward the apartment. He’d have to call his boss and tell him that he’d be late.

When he reached the front door, Joe jammed his key inside and threw it open. He ran up the stairs as fast as he could, listening to the hollow thuds of his footfalls as they echoed through the foyer behind him.

When he reached his apartment, he was surprised to find the door unlocked.That’s weird, he thought. I could have sworn that I locked it before I left.Joe pushed the door open and headed inside. Instantly, a foul odor hit his nostrils. It

smelled as if something in the trash had gone bad, but Joe knew that wasn’t possible, since the house had smelled fine when he’d left that morning.

“Melissa!” he called across the apartment. “Hey, Melissa! What the hell is that smell?”There was no reply.Aggravated, Joe walked across the apartment and pushed the bedroom door open. The room

was dim, but not dark enough for Joe to overlook the fact that no one was in bed. Puzzled, he stood there for a moment, trying to figure out where his girlfriend had gone.

“Melissa?” he said as he walked over to the bathroom and peered inside. Like the bedroom, it was fairly dark, but obviously empty. He walked back into the bedroom and opened the door to the walk-in closet. She wasn’t there, either. Then he remembered the unlocked door.

Maybe she went outside to dump the trash, he thought. Maybe I just didn’t smell whatever went bad when I left this morning.

It was a definite possibility, though Joe failed to see how he had missed such a terrible odor. Regardless of where his girlfriend had gone, Joe knew that there would be hell to pay if he

didn’t contact his boss and let him know that he wouldn’t be there on time. He picked up the phone and dialed his boss’s direct line. There was no answer, so he left a voicemail and hung up.

On his way out, he resolved to check around the building for his girlfriend before he dealt with the flat tire. He shut the door behind him, leaving it unlocked in case Melissa came back. As he walked towards the front hallway, he heard footsteps on the stairs. A moment before he could get his hand on the door, it opened.

“Thank God,” Melissa said. “I was hoping you hadn’t left for work yet. I went outside to try and catch you, and I saw that your car was still here.”

“What’s the problem?”“There was a sewage backup,” she said. “The toilet is filled to the brim with black sludge.”Joe slammed his fist against the doorjamb.“Son of a bitch. How can this day get any worse?”“Why? Did something else happen?”“Yeah, it did. The reason I haven’t left for work yet is because one of those punk kids

slashed my tire. It’ll take me a little while to put the spare on, so I had to call my boss and tell him that I’ll be late.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.“Don’t worry about it,” he sighed. “Come on, let’s go have a look at that toilet.”It was worse than Joe would have imagined. The entire bowl was filled to within a

millimeter of overflowing. “Christ, this is bad. We need to get someone in here to fix this.”“I’ll call maintenance,” said Melissa.Joe snorted.“Like those morons will be any help.”

Earlier in the year, there had been a problem with the hot water heater. It had taken them days to repair it, and Joe and Melissa had been forced to take ice cold showers until the repair work was finally finished.

“If they don’t get here right away this time, I want you to find a plumber in the phone book and give him a call.”

“But we’ll have to pay for it, then.”“I know. But which is worse, paying a couple hundred dollars or losing our toilet for God

knows how long?”Melissa didn’t respond. “Are you alright?” said Joe.“No, I’m not. I hate this place, Joe. I hate it, and I want to move someplace else.”“I know,” he said quietly. “I hate it too. That’s why I’ve been so insistent about finding a

condo. We deserve better than this, and we need to do whatever we can to get it.” He leaned over and hugged her. “I wish I could stay and help you with this, but I’ve got to get going. I still need to change

that tire.”“It’s OK,” she said. “I can handle it.”

#

Joe popped his trunk and unscrewed the cap that held the spare tire in place. When the tire was free, he grabbed it and leaned it against the curb. Next, he went to the little panel that was built in to the side of the trunk. He opened it, and found a dismantled jack and a small tire iron stuffed inside. He took them out and assembled the jack, then slid it under the side of the car.

As he jacked the car up, he wondered how he’d ever be able to put away enough money for a down payment, especially with the costs of a plumber and a new tire looming on the horizon. He didn’t want to blow any more of his money on rent, especially with what it would cost to rent a decent place close to work, but he was beginning to think that paying a ridiculous amount of money for an apartment was more economically feasible than buying something. He and Melissa didn’t have a lot saved up, and all of the loans designed for people with low down payments were pretty expensive.

Maybe we would just be better off dumping twelve hundred a month into an apartment. Maybe it’s our only –

Joe’s thoughts were suddenly cut off by a voice. It was deep, heavily accented, and frigid.“Excuse me,” it said. “I was wondering if I might speak with you for a moment.”Joe turned slowly, almost reluctantly, to see who had addressed him. For some inexplicable

reason, he was suddenly afraid. The man standing in front of him was a good head and shoulders taller than he was. He had

a thick mass of neatly combed hair, jet black save for a few wisps of gray. His face was long and hard, dominated by a brow that looked as if it had been hewn from granite. He was exceedingly well dressed, and had on a black overcoat that appeared as if it was made from a material that was as soft and supple as a newborn’s skin.

“Can I help you?” Joe asked uncertainly.“Perhaps,” said the man. His lips moved slowly, as if intimidated by the large and angular

nose that jutted from his face like a dagger. “I am looking for something.”

A black car with tinted windows was parked behind him, its engine idling quietly. Joe craned his neck around to get a better look at it, and tried to keep his mouth from falling open. The car was like a piece of art, more sculpture than machine. Its lines were elegant, masculine, flowing; The David on wheels. Among the modest cars that lined the parking lot, the man’s vehicle seemed like an emissary from heaven.

“What?” said Joe distractedly as he tore his gaze away. “I said I am looking for something.” “What is it you need?” . “I have of late come to possess a very valuable animal. It is a rare breed of rhesus monkey,

of which only a dozen or so exist in the world. It escaped from my home three days ago.”“Really?” Joe said stupidly. His gaze kept returning to the car. Apparently, the man noticed the object of Joe’s attention. “You like the car?” he asked. The tips of his mouth slowly twisted up into a grin, and Joe

shuddered. The man’s smile didn’t just look out of place; it looked unnatural, as if his face wasn’t built for it.

“Yeah,” Joe said, trying to hide his discomfort.“As well you should. It is the only one of its kind. It was custom made, just for me, many

years ago. You have never seen its equal.”“I’ll bet I haven’t,” Joe said, staring at the car again.“Regardless,” said the man, “We are off the topic.”For the second time, Joe forced his gaze back to the man.“You said your pet is missing?” “Yes,” said the man. “But as I have said, it is no ordinary animal. It looks quite different

from the primates that you may have seen in zoos or on the television. It is a small, dainty, very fragile creature. Its fur is gray, and it is. . .omnivorous is the word. For eating both plant and meat. Yes?”

Joe nodded.“So, as you might imagine, his teeth are very sharp.” “You know,” Joe said. “I think that I may have seen this pet of yours.”The man’s steely gray eyes narrowed.“Really? Where?”“In two places. Once, out on Route 58, about three miles from here. I think my girlfriend

may have seen it again last night, too. She told me that she saw some kind of an animal in the window when she was cleaning. Scared her half to death.”

The man nodded slowly.“Yes, they can look a bit frightening to the layperson. Their eyes are red, which some

people find off-putting.”“Exactly.” said Joe. “She said that it had red eyes, and whatever we saw out in the road the

other night had red eyes, too.”The man smiled again, and Joe looked away.“You must contact me at once if you see him again,” he said, reaching into one of the

overcoat’s deep pockets. He produced a thin white business card and handed it to Joe. Only two things were written on it; a name and a phone number. “Where do you live? In one of these. . .

buildings?” “That’s right,” said Joe, trying to ignore the contempt in the man’s voice. “Excellent,” said the man. “Do call if you see him.”

“OK. I will.”“Many thanks,” the man said flatly. Without another word, he turned and walked back to

his car. As Joe watched him pull out of the lot, he shuddered and let the business card fall to the

ground. It felt almost slimy in his grasp, despite the fact that there wasn’t so much as a spec of dirt on it. Though Joe knew he was being foolish, he could not shake the feeling that the card was somehow tainted.

Foolish or not, one thing was certain: the man bothered Joe. He was on his own when it came to finding the damn monkey.

#

When Joe returned home that night, the awful smell was gone.“Did you have to call a plumber?” he asked as he hung up his jacket.“Unfortunately, yes. The maintenance guys wouldn’t have been able to get to it until

tomorrow.”“I figured as much.”Joe walked into the sitting room and plopped down on the couch.“What are we having for dinner?”

“I thought we’d have spaghetti. We haven’t eaten it in a while, and I have a taste for it.”“Sounds good to me.”Melissa walked back into the kitchen and made up a couple of plates for her and Joe. They

ate in front of the TV, which they were starting to do more and more frequently despite the vacant table that sat in the dining area. When they were finished, Melissa took the dishes over to the sink and washed them.

“I’m going to have to get a new tire soon,” said Joe. “Those little pissant spairs aren’t good for very long.”

“How much do you think that will cost?”“It depends on what I buy, I guess. I could probably get a decent tire for eighty to a hundred

bucks.”“Does that include what it will cost to have them put it on?”“I might as well just put the damn thing on myself. There’s no sense in paying a garage an

extra fifty bucks in labor to get it done.”Joe was about to get up and head to the bathroom, when he remembered his conversation

with the foreign man earlier that day.“Oh,” he said. “Before I forget, I think I found out what that weird animal is that we’ve

been seeing.”“Really? What is it?”“Well, when I was changing my tire this morning, some guy pulled up in a really fancy car.

He was a total asshole, all stuck up. Anyway, he got out and asked me if I had seen his pet anywhere. I asked what kind of pet, and he said that it was a rare monkey.”

“I knew it!” said Melissa. “I told you it was a monkey!”Joe rolled his eyes.“Anyway, he said that the thing looks kind of scary, because it has red eyes. So like I said,

it wasn’t a devil after all.”“I didn’t really think that it was a devil.”

“Sure you didn’t,” said Joe. When he was done using the restroom, he changed out of his work clothes. “What’s your homework situation like tonight?” he asked as he walked back towards the

couch.“Not too bad. I don’t have any more than usual.”“I suppose you’ll want the TV on.”“Yeah, I’m sure that I will.”Joe sat back down on the couch. “I guess I’ll just have to read in the bedroom again,” he said.Melissa shrugged.“I guess you will.”

#

For what seemed like the tenth time, Joe readjusted his pillows. His neck had already begun to hurt, and he hadn’t even been reading for a half hour.

Exasperated, he sat up and crossed his legs in front of him. He began reading again, but had only made it about ten minutes before his left leg fell asleep. He swore, and got out of bed to try and shake off the prickles that had enveloped his leg from his thigh down to his toes.

“Did you hear that?” called Melissa from the other room.“Hear what?” Joe said as he danced around on his right leg, shaking his left as vigorously as

he could.“That tapping noise.”“It’s probably just me,” he called back. “My leg fell asleep, and I’m hopping around like an

idiot.”“It isn’t coming from the bedroom. It’s coming from out here somewhere. Can you hear it

now?”“No, I can’t,” Joe said. His leg was starting to feel a bit better, so he set it down on the

ground and walked tentatively out to where Melissa sat.“I still don’t hear anything,” he said. “It figures, she said. The minute you came out here it stopped. That’s always the way –

Hold on,” she said suddenly. “There it is again.”Joe was about to reiterate that he could hear nothing, but stopped himself. He could just

make out a faint, almost rhythmic tapping sound over the noise from the TV.“Turn that down,” he said.Melissa picked up the remote and hit the mute button.The noises continued, almost too quietly to hear. As Joe listened, he realized that they were

coming in groups of three, followed by intermittent pauses. Tap, tap, tap, silence. Tap, tap, tap, silence.

“I think it’s getting louder,” said Melissa. “Where the hell is it coming from?”“I don’t know, but it’s starting to get annoying.”Joe and Melissa both stood up and began walking around the room, pausing to listen every

now and then.“I wonder if one of our neighbors is pounding on something,” said Melissa. “Maybe

someone’s trying to hang a picture.”

“I don’t think so. This sounds closer, almost like its inside one of the walls. I think it’s coming from over there,” he said, pointing at the empty section of wall next to the TV.

Melissa walked over and put her ear up against the wall.“It is,” she said. “It sounds like it’s something right on the other side.”Joe was about to suggest that it might be one of the pipes, when the sound stopped. “Thank god,” he said. “Whatever that was, it was driving me nuts.”THUD!Both Joe and Melissa jumped. “What the hell-” Joe began, but the sound came again, cutting him off.THUD!Melissa took a step back. “It’s coming from the same spot,” she said.THUD!This time the sound was accompanied by a sprinkling of dust. Joe looked down and saw a

crack appear in the wall.THUD!The crack spread outwards as part of the wall was pushed in. More dust sifted down,

coating the carpet near the baseboards.Melissa took another step back.“Jesus, Joe, what’s going on?”THUD! THUD! THUD! Concussion after concussion slammed into the wall, and pieces of drywall began to fly into

the room. Both Joe and Melissa continued to back up, confusion and fear overshadowing both of their faces. Each new impact pushed the wall farther in.

THUD!One final collision blasted the remnants of the wall inward. Melissa screamed, and Joe

spluttered as he put his hands up in front of him, choking on the chalky dust that temporarily clouded his vision.

When visibility returned, Joe saw that a good portion of the wall was gone. It was scattered around the room in bits and pieces, as if an explosion had ripped through the apartment.

Joe eyed the damage, trying to ignore his pounding heart as he asked himself what could have possibly caused it. Then he saw what was crouching in the middle of the floor, and nearly screamed out loud.

A tiny creature leered up at him. Its legs were short and its arms trailed down so that the tips of its fingers nearly rested on the floor. From head to toe it was covered in bristly grey fur, and its nostrils flared angrily as it sucked in breath after hissing breath. The top of its tiny head was crowned with a pair of pointy ears, and its snarling mouth was filled with sharp teeth. Its rosy cheeks pulsated as it breathed, and Joe could not tell if their color came from the creature’s natural pallor, or the hellish red glare that radiated outwards from its burning eyes.

“Oh my god, oh my Jesus, what is it?” Melissa said shrilly. “What the hell is it?”Slowly, it began to advance. Step after tiny step, it closed the distance between them, as

relentlessly as a serial killer stalking his victim.“Run,” said Joe urgently. Melissa did not respond. She was frozen in place. “For the love

of god, run!”

In an instant, she snapped out of her trance and charged for the door. Joe saw the creature move to intercept her, and he lunged for it. It was too quick for him. In a split second, it was on her back. Melissa screamed as she spun and thrashed, trying to get the thing off.

Joe ran over to help, and was sprayed with a gout of warm blood as the creature rammed one of its long arms into her torso. He grabbed it and tried to pull it off, but its arm was buried so deeply inside of her that he could not budge it. It glared at him, snarling, and took a swipe at his face with its free hand. Joe reeled backwards from the force of the blow, absently wondering how such a small thing possessed such strength. His face was beginning to grow warm where the creature had hit it, and he knew that it had drawn blood.

Melissa reached for him, a look of horror and anguish upon her face. The color was rapidly draining from her skin, and she sank to her knees.

He ran around behind her to try to pull the thing off again. It wasn’t there. Frantically, Joe looked around, expecting an ambush from any angle. Then he heard a ripping sound, and he looked back at Melissa.

The back of her shirt was completely red, and it bulged outwards. Joe looked more closely, and noticed a huge vertical tear running down its center. Too stunned to move, he watched as the bulge moved back and forth. Melissa made a sickening gurgling sound as she fell forward, flailing her arms weakly.

It’s on her back, he thought frantically.“Get off her!” Joe screamed as he stooped down and tore off what remained of her shirt.

Then he dropped to his knees and vomited. Her back was slashed open from her neck to her buttocks. The area around the cut was

pushed outwards, forming a grotesque hump. And the hump moved. Joe grabbed Melissa, trying to pull her to her feet, and noticed that deep between the crevices of the wound something gray and furry moved frantically about. He could hear a revolting slurping noise coming from it, like the sound a liposuction vacuum would make if it had teeth.

He looked up again, and a tiny head popped out from the center of the laceration. It was red through and through, soaked with Melissa’s blood. Joe let Melissa fall and leapt backwards, tripping over his own feet. His mind reeled, refusing to believe what it saw.

Slowly the creature began to peel its way out of the cavity it had made, tearing through skin and muscle as if it were nothing more than warm butter. It emerged, engorged with blood and tissue, and began to lumber towards him.

“No,” Joe whispered. “You killed her. Oh god, you killed her. No, please no.” The creature continued to advance. Joe tried to stand, but again, the creature was too quick

for him. It rushed forward and pushed him down with enough force to knock the wind out of him. Then it merely stood over him, grinning and salivating.

Suddenly there was a frantic pounding on the front door. The creature faltered, and Joe seized his opportunity. He lashed out with his fist, striking the creature in the face. It staggered backwards, screaming in a voice that was anything but small. Joe leapt to his feet and tried to run, but tripped.

The pounding on the door ceased, and Joe heard something heavy begin to slam into it, again and again. He tried to crawl away, but his leg was caught on something. He turned his head, and saw that the creature had the cuff of his pants grasped firmly in its hands.

Just then Joe heard the sound of the door splintering inwards, and he looked up just in time to see a dark and massive figure charge into the room. Again, the creature faltered. It let Joe’s leg slide from its grasp, and regarded the newcomer cautiously, almost fearfully. Joe looked up

to see who had entered, and was greeted with the countenance of the foreign man he had met in the parking lot.

The man said nothing at first. He merely looked around the apartment, eyes first going to the gaping hole in the wall, then to the bloody corpse on the floor, then to the little creature that stood beside Joe’s legs.

Almost imperceptibly, the man began to shake his head.“Ah, Belphegor,” he said quietly. “What have you done?”The creature took a step back, trembling. Thank god, Joe thought. Thank god, he’s here to save me.The man regarded Joe for a second before kneeling down next to Melissa’s body. Joe’s mouth fell open as the man did something that Joe never would have imagined. He

began to lap up the blood from her wounds. His tongue, impossibly long, seemed to caress her body as it took the blood and carried it to his mouth. Joe gagged as he watched, revolted but unable to look away.

Finally, the man stopped what he was doing and stood up. A copious amount of blood ran down his lips and chin.

“Hers tastes better than the last I had,” he said. Joe wasn’t sure, but he appeared to be addressing the creature. “It is fortunate for you that there was still plenty left for me.” The man grinned again, and Joe noticed for the first time what it was that made the man’s smile so frightening. His incisors were a good deal longer than the rest of his teeth, and they were every bit as razor sharp as those of the creature.

“Let us make one thing clear,” he said quietly. “If you ever disobey me again, the direness of your fate will be the stuff of legends for millennia to come.”

The creature trembled harder, and it nodded vigorously, as if it understood every word that was being said.

“Please,” Joe croaked. “Help me. . .”“Of course,” the man said. He turned to the creature. “Finish here. Then we go.”Without a moment’s hesitation, the creature lunged forward and tore Joe’s throat from his

neck. Joe gasped and choked, watching his own blood spray across the room. His vision began to darken, and he fell back. As the last vestiges of sight began to depart and the world began to grow warm and calm, the dark man knelt beside Joe, teeth bared. In his last moments of life, Joe noticed that the man’s eyes were glowing just as red as the creature’s.

#

“It happened again,” said the man.“Same as before,” said the woman.The man stood up, a look of pain upon his face. His hands were covered in blood, and he

studied them, as if able to see something that no one else could.“Was it him?”“Yes,” said the man. He stepped forward and knelt, almost reverently, next to one of the

bodies. “I should have known this would happen,” he said. “I should have seen this coming. How

could I have missed something this big?”“Because you’re only human,” she said quietly. “Everyone makes mistakes.”“Sometimes I don’t think I am human anymore,” said the man. “I don’t feel very human.”

“Hunting these things can change you,” the woman said calmly. “You’re human, through and through. You’re just different.”

“There’s that word again. I hate that word.”“There’s no reason to. You should be proud of the gifts that you have.”“I’d be more proud if I’d have gotten us here before this happened,” he said, making a

sweeping gesture with his right hand. “I’d be happier if I could do something right for once.” “Everyone makes mistakes,” the woman said again.“I can’t afford to. There’s too much at stake.”“You have to relax. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”“I have to be. Another slip-up like this could get us killed. What if he had been waiting for

us? What if we’d been taken by surprise?”The woman looked away. Her silence was a more powerful response than any word could

have been.“He’s still close, but I can’t tell where,” the man said.“It doesn’t matter. There’s nothing we can do about it now.”The man looked down at what was left of the bodies.“These poor people,” he said. “They did nothing to deserve this. Neither did any of the

others.”“I know,” the woman said. “That’s why we’re here. To stop him. To stop them.” They were both silent for a moment.“This one is different. He’s stronger than the others. Smarter. His imprint is frightening,”

the man said.“It almost seems like he’s leading us on a chase,” the woman said. “Toying with us. I

wonder why?”The man shook his head.“I don’t know. But we’re going to find out.”The woman flexed one of her arms. Even through the long-sleeved shirt she was wearing,

the muscles were clearly visible. “I’ve got your back,” she said. “I don’t care how strong he is. We’re going to take him

down.”The man walked slowly around the room, carefully avoiding the blood on the carpet.“There was something else here, too. I can feel another imprint. Those tiny paw prints…

they weren’t from any animal.”“I was wondering about that. What could they be?”He shook his head.“I don’t know. But the imprint is…strange. Distant. I know that’s not a very good

explanation, but it’s the best way I can describe it.”“Well, whatever it means, it seems he has help now. We need to be doubly cautious,” she

said.The man nodded, and was about to say something more, when the woman suddenly glanced

up at the window, her rope-like muscles tensing.“We should leave,” she said. The man stood still, head cocked to the side, frowning. After a moment, his features

softened a bit.“Your senses are better than you think,” he said.“What did I feel?”

“The police,” he said. “They’ll be here soon.”As if to emphasize his point, the sound of sirens wafted through the air.“Will the cops be OK?” she asked. “He’s really gone?”The man nodded. “They’ll be fine.” The man shut his eyes for a moment, and the room seemed to grow

warmer.“What did you do?”“I tried to calm the nightmares,” he said quietly.“What nightmares?” “The nightmares the police who find the bodies will have. The ones that will haunt them for

the rest of their lives.”The sirens grew closer.“Grasp my hand,” he said. She complied. The man closed his eyes, brow furrowed in

concentration. Slowly and subtly, he and the woman grew dim, then vanished from sight. “Don’t speak,” he whispered. “The hall isn’t empty any longer.”With the stealth of practiced hunters, the man and woman moved quickly into the hallway.

With their departure the apartment again grew quiet, save for the sounds of the sirens.

The 21 st Year

Rick clutched his glass, listening as the last vestiges of muted screaming died away. He glanced around at his family, noting with a degree of frustration that none of them seemed to have detected the sound.

That’s the third time I’ve heard it. Why am I the only one?He tried, yet again, to dismiss it. Just stop thinking about it. It’s probably nothing.Rick glanced about the sprawling flagstone patio, unable to keep his palms from sweating. If there really was someone screaming, then why didn’t anyone else react? There were people everywhere - some stood in small groups near the pool, others sat

beneath the gazebo, and some congregated near the mahogany bar. The din of their conversation, combined with the pianist’s light jazz, could have been enough to prevent them from hearing.

Then how was I able to hear it? Am I going crazy?He again turned his attention to the hodgepodge of plastic surgery and oversized gems that

strutted and preened about the patio. Maybe they’re all just oblivious. These people don’t have a care in the world. Why would

they give a shit if someone’s screaming? He had never felt completely comfortable with most of his family; the term “black sheep”

didn’t even come close to doing his situation justice. Even now, he stood dressed in black leather jacket and torn jeans – a blatant statement that, no, he didn’t want to be there, and he wouldn’t dress the part.

What Rick had really wanted for his 21st birthday was to sit in a bar and have his first legal drink with some of his old high school buddies. Though he’d always gotten a thrill from passing off a fake ID at a liquor store or sneaking his parents’ booze out of the house, he’d been looking forward to actually being able to sit at a bar without the threat of punishment looming over him.

The party had been his father’s idea, and as per usual, the man had not given a second thought to what Rick wanted. He’d spent months planning the event, and had been obsessive about making sure that everyone was invited. Rick had insisted that his father at least let his friends attend, but the man had not allowed it.

“They’ll be an embarrassment,” he’d said. “The way you dress and behave is disgraceful enough. I don’t need our relatives to see that you choose to spend your time with a bunch of primates on top of it.”

Rick seethed at the memory. His father had never liked Rick’s attitude, his clothes, his friends, or anything else about the way he chose to live. The man had always been incredulous at Rick’s refusal to spend time with any of the indolent braggarts that regularly loafed about the country club, and still regularly tried to convince Rick that he needed to “better himself” by spending more time there. Rick still found that amusing.

Where in God’s name did I come from? Sometimes, I swear I’m adopted.He lifted his beer glass to his lips, then froze. Soft and tortured screams again wafted over

the din of the crowd.A rotund, middle aged man with thinning hair walked briskly past. Rick grabbed his arm,

startling him. “Uncle Jack, listen to me. I’ve been hearing-” a booming voice cut him off.“Attention!”

Rick shot a frustrated glance towards its source. A man wearing a dark, three-piece suit stood on the dais that had been constructed for the piano player. He was squarely built, and had a neatly trimmed head of dark brown hair.

“Attention!” he said again, waiting for the sounds of the crowd to die down. “Listen,” said Rick quickly, “I keep hearing someone screaming. I’m sure I’m not

imagining-”“Shhh,” said Jack. “Keep quiet. Your father’s going to say something.”Rick closed his mouth and glared at his Uncle, who appeared not to notice.“As you all know,” Rick’s father began, “This is a very special day. My son Rick is 21.”Everyone in the crowd clapped and smiled, turning their gazes to where Rick stood. He

squirmed uncomfortably, straining to hear over their applause, but the screams had died down again.

“The 21st year is one of great significance. It’s the age when a boy becomes a man. It is a time of responsibility, of great personal sacrifice. But it’s also a time of celebration and joy.”

His father looked directly at him.“Even though we’ve had our differences, I’m sure that you’ll be a gentleman someday soon.

I’m proud of you.”The statement was the most complimentary thing his father had said to him in years, yet

Rick could not bring himself to smile.“Now,” said his father, “is the moment you’ve all been waiting for. It’s time for cake!”There were a few laughs, and more applause.“If everyone would be so kind as to follow my lovely wife downstairs, we will begin serving

dessert immediately.”Rick’s father stepped down from the dais, and everyone made their way towards the palatial

home that stood on the edge of the patio. His mother was easy to pick out; her platinum blonde hair stood out in sharp relief against the deep blue of her dress. She stood beside one of the large sliding-glass doors, ushering people inside.

“Now what were you going to say?” asked Uncle Jack.“I was going to say, I’ve been hearing someone screaming. No one else seems to notice it,

and it’s driving me crazy.”Jack shrugged. “I haven’t heard anything. I’m sure it’s nothing.” He put his hand on Rick’s shoulder.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go get some cake.”Rick started to protest, but his Uncle was already on his way to the house.Once inside, the crowd followed his mother through the cavernous halls.“I’m so excited for you, Richard,” a voice came from his left. He looked over, and saw a

tiny aged woman in a green sequined dress shuffling along beside him. “I know that underneath all of those awful clothes, you’re a bright young man. I’m sure you’ll make the right decision.”

“What decision?” Rick asked.“Rose!” Jack said sharply, startling a few of the people who walked nearby. Rick’s Great Aunt Rose faltered, stumbling slightly as she went.“Nothing,” she said hastily. Without another word, she quickened her pace, and was soon a

good distance ahead of them.“What the hell was she babbling about?” Rick asked his uncle.“It’s hard to say,” he said shortly. “Aunt Rose’s mind isn’t in the greatest shape nowadays.

Dementia runs on her side of the family.”

Rick opened his mouth to say something more, but decided against it. Something about Jack’s expression told him that it wasn’t a good idea to press the issue.

When they reached the massive double-doors that served as the entryway to the library, everyone walked quietly in. Almost all conversation had ceased, and the only distinctive sound was the clicking of countless pairs of shoes as they traveled across the cherry wood floor.

The room was unusually murky. The pewter sconces that lined the walls emitted only the dimmest light, and the chandelier was completely dark. At the center of the room, a huge cake sat on a glass table.

He’d thought that the library was an odd place to serve his birthday cake, but had known better than to question his mother’s intentions. She had been every bit as neurotic as his father about the particulars of his party, and Rick knew from experience that any suggestions on his part about the way she should run her social engagements would be met with disdain, if not outright hostility.

When everyone had made it inside, Rick’s mother walked over to the heavy wooden doors and, with apparent effort, shut them one by one. When she had finished, there was an audible click as she turned the lock. She walked over to Jack and handed him something, which he slipped into his pocket.

Rick had always wondered why there was a lock on the library doors, and why his parents insisted on using it whenever they went out of town. His father had always told him that it was because there were books on the library shelves that were worth a great deal of money, but Rick had always had a hard time with that explanation. The state-of-the-art security system with which the house was equipped should have been more than enough to deter any thieves.

“Rick,” said his father, “come here.” He glanced around the room, noting that everyone’s eyes were on him.“Why?” he asked.“There is something I have to show you. Just come over here, and don’t be difficult.” He

gestured to one of the lofty bookcases. Its dark, polished wood gleamed, even in the dim light cast by the wall sconces. “Find the book entitled The Fall. It’s on the third shelf.”

“What is this? A scavenger hunt?”His father sighed. “Just find the damn book.”Rick shrugged.“Whatever.” He sauntered over to the shelf, glanced at each book one by one and eventually located an

old tome, bound in black leather, with the appropriate title etched into its spine in gold lettering“Pick it up,” said his father.Rick reached out and took hold of the book. The room was quiet enough to hear a mouse

sneeze, and at a glance he saw that everyone still watched him.“What the hell are all of you looking at?”There were a few murmurs in response, but nothing more.“Now,” said his father, ignoring him, “look at the part of the shelf that’s exposed, where the

book used to sit.” Rick frowned, looking at the spot his father had indicated. At first he saw nothing, but as his

eyes adjusted to the darkness, he noticed that a portion of the wood was slightly raised.“There’s a bump in the shelf,” he said.His father nodded.

“Press down on it.”Rick placed his fingers on the smooth wood, and pushed. He felt something click beneath

them, and the shelves began to move. He leapt back in surprise.A few chuckles came from the room behind him, and his father grinned.“He’s my son all right,” he said, and was rewarded with heartier laughter.“I did the same thing on my 21st birthday,” he explained, “except when I jumped back, I

tripped over my own feet and fell flat on the floor.”Rick stared at the shelves, which slowly rotated inward. When they were perpendicular to

the room, they stopped. He gaped at what lay revealed beyond them.A short corridor extended about twenty feet beyond the edge of the shelves. Its walls, floor

and ceiling consisted of grey stonework, and Rick saw that a crude arch was set in the back wall. The arch framed a set of stone steps, which marched down into complete darkness.

“What the hell? What is this shit?”His father did not respond. Instead, he reached into his pocket and produced a small

matchbook. He walked into the corridor and headed towards the stairs. When he came to them, he stood on the top step and struck one of the matches. In the light of the tiny flame, Rick saw that an iron torch was mounted to the wall just inside the arch. His father held the match to it, and it caught.

“You can follow me, Richard,” said his father as he walked down a few more steps. “I’ll have the torches lit in no time.”

Rick shook his head.“Uh-uh. No way. I’m not going down there.”His father stopped, and regarded his son.“Well, that’s just it, isn’t it? You’re a disappointment to the end. A coward. Are you so

scared of the dark that you can’t just come here for a damn minute and see what I have to show you?”

Rick stood as rigid as a board, glowering at his father. Though every instinct in his body told him that something was very wrong, pride kept him from backing down.

“Lead the way, old man,” he said. His mother came up beside him and took his hand.“I know that this is a little odd. But don’t be afraid. I’ll walk with you.”She moved forward, tugging on his arm. After a moment’s hesitation, Rick followed.The stairwell was not wide enough to admit them side-by-side, so his mother went first. He

followed her down, watching the dim shape of his father continue to move ahead of them, stopping briefly every couple of steps in order to light another torch. The further they descended, the colder and moister the air became. Rick shivered.

“Where are you taking me?”“You’ll see,” she said. “Your father and I will explain everything.”At the bottom of the stairs, Rick found himself at the beginning of a cramped hallway. From

floor to ceiling, the hall bore the same stonework as the upper corridor. The air at the foot of the steps was thick and musty. Rick sneezed as he strained to see where the hall led.

“This way,” said his father. Again, he walked ahead, lighting the torches as he went.Rick glanced behind him, expecting to see his birthday guests following, but the hall was

empty, and no sound of footfalls carried through the stillness.“Why aren’t they coming with us?”

“Because it’s not their place to come,” said his mother. “You’re our son. It’s our right and duty to see you through this.”

Rick stopped moving forward. “All right, just what the fuck is going on here? I’m not going another step until you tell

me.” His father lit the last torch, revealing the end of the hallway. It dead-ended into a wall, in

which sat a squat wooden door. “You’re at the age of manhood,” said his father. “It’s time for you to see what’s in this

room.”“What do you mean? What the hell is this about?”“Please,” said his mother. “Just trust us. What we have to show you is very important.”“It’s something that has been shown to each and every one of us,” said his father. “It’s a

part of our legacy, something that our family has sworn to protect.”Rick hesitated yet again, looking back and forth between his mother and father. “Wait here,” his father said, walking towards the door. When he reached it he pulled a set of

keys from his pocket, unlocked it, and yanked it back. The bottom of the door made a horrible grating sound as it scraped across the floor. He stepped inside, and Rick winced as he closed the door behind him.

“Why won’t you tell me what’s going on?”“Because we can’t say just yet. You have to see for yourself.”

“Why? What’s in there?”His mother grinned smugly, saying nothing more.After a few minutes of waiting, the door swung open again.“Everything’s ready,” said his father. “You can come in now.”His mother led him by the hand to the end of the hall, and both of them went through the

door.Rick glanced about in utter shock at what he saw before him. He was in a high-ceilinged

chamber that appeared to have been carved from the bedrock upon which the house sat. Tall, flickering torches stood about the perimeter of the room. In their center sat a stone block, upon which a nest of candles burned.

His father circled around the block, stopping when he reached the farthest wall of the chamber. There was an indentation in the wall near his feet, practically hidden in the shadows.

“Come here,” he said.Rick slowly walked toward his father, heart pounding. He heard his mother’s footsteps as

she followed him across the room. “Look,” said his father, pointing downwards. Rick peered into the niche. For an instant his vision clouded, not by the darkness, but by the

mental spasm that wracked his consciousness as his brain tried to comprehend what lay in the shallow pit that had been dug out at the foot of the wall. Every muscle in his body grew rigid, and his head swam.

A larval shape, roughly four feet long, writhed slowly back and forth in the shadows, probing about the recesses of the hole. Its spongy flesh was the revolting pale yellow of rancid milk, and thick mucous oozed from the thousands of tiny holes that covered its hide. Rick gagged, stumbling backwards.

“What. . .what is it?” He stammered. “What the hell is it?”

“It’s a spawn,” his mother said in tones of awed ecstasy, staring down into the pit. “One of his spawn.”

“What are you talking about?” Rick said, taking another step back. “Whose spawn?”“It’s the spawn of an unparalleled power from beyond this world,” his father said, heading to

the left-hand wall of the room. “For over ten generations, our family has cared for it. We have already been well rewarded for the custodianship we’ve offered, and the rewards will only grow more lavish with time.”

Rick could not respond. He continued to back away, barely able to process his father’s words, not daring to imagine that madness slithered in his voice.

His father continued to walk towards the side of the room, heading for a small metal door that Rick had not noticed before. When he reached it he stopped, fumbling through his pockets. After a few moments he produced a large key, which he thrust into the lock on the door. With a metallic clunk, the lock turned, and the door squealed open. His father stepped beyond it, then emerged a moment later with a length of chain clasped in his hands. He yanked it forward, and another figure stumbled out of the darkness behind him.

It was a woman, wearing only soiled and tattered rags. The chain was attached to an iron collar fastened around her neck. She glanced fitfully about, eyes wide, groaning as his father gave the chain another harsh tug.

Rick was mournfully aware that, judging from the chamber’s location, the patio was most likely directly above them.

“Mom,” he said, regarding his mother with eyes that he knew were just as wide as those of the terrified woman, “what the hell is this?”

“This is your moment,” she replied. She walked to the center of the room, to where the candles sat upon the stone block, bending to pick something up off the floor. When she stood, she clasped a cruel-looking blade in her hands.

“What are you going to do with that?”“It’s not what I’m going to do,” his mother replied. “It’s what you’re going to do.”“The spawn is a living thing,” his father said, dragging the woman forward. “Like us, it

needs sustenance.”“You are to make the sacrifice,” said his mother. The woman struggled frantically against her restraints. With surprising savagery, Rick’s

father turned and struck her in the face. She collapsed to the floor, and his father let the chain fall. His hands free, he reached underneath his jacket and produced a pistol. He pointed it at Rick.

“Dad, what the hell-”“Take the knife,” his father said quietly. Rick did not move.“Do it. Now.”Without taking his eyes off the gun, Rick moved slowly towards his mother and grasped the

hilt of the blade. When he had it in his hands he glanced at it, and was nearly as revolted as when he’d first seen the spawn. The blade was a foot long, jagged, and bore an unmistakable reddish stain.

“Choose,” said his mother. “Embrace your heritage, or die.”“You’re shitting me,” he said, voice trembling. “You want me to kill her?”

His father nodded.“The easiest way is to cut her throat. Stabbing her won’t work nearly as well.”

Rick glanced frantically back and forth between them. This has got to be a joke, he thought. It has to be. “Very funny, guys,” he said desperately. “I guess you got me. Let’s go back upstairs.”His mother frowned. “This is no jest, Richard. This is a part of your heritage. You must choose.”“Make your decision,” his father said. “It’s your life, or hers.”Rick did not reply. His mouth refused to work.“Just think,” said his father. “You can live a life of luxury and influence. You can have

anything you want. All you have to do is kill this girl.”Rick looked back and forth between them again, trying to read their expressions, trying to

fathom if it really was just some sick birthday prank. Faces grave, eyes filled with lunacy, they gazed intently back at him. The realization that they were serious hit him like a wrecking ball. If he did not kill the woman, his father would shoot him.

“Don’t disappoint me now,” his father said. “You’ve been a disappointment your entire life. Don’t let it end this way.”

Rick forced his legs to move, and managed to take a few shaky steps forward. He gazed down again at the thing that writhed in the pit, fixated by its movements. As he stared, his vision faded. All to late, he realized he was fainting. He tried to stop himself, screaming as the world around him disappeared. He was alone, surrounded by infinite blackness, floating as if gravity had lost all power. His whole body shook, and he flailed his arms, trying to grab onto something, anything, that would prove solid.

His predicament was utterly forgotten as a sudden euphoria washed over him. A voice, rich and powerful, erupted from the darkness around him.

AT LAST. The darkness of the void shattered. Intense light seared his eyes, and he screamed.AT LAST, YOU HAVE FOUND ME. Rick’s body gyrated. His arms and legs went limp, and his head lolled to the side. He felt

something happening to him, to his mind. He was changing. He tried to fight, but the urge to submit was tempting, powerful.

LONG HAVE I AWAITED YOUR BIRTH.Good, Rick thought, convulsing ever more violently. It feels so good. . .YOUR FAMILY HAS FULFILLED THEIR PURPOSE. THEY HAVE BROUGHT YOU

INTO THIS WORLD, RAISED YOU, CARED FOR YOU. YOUR STRENGTH IS GREAT.What. . .do. . .you. . mean. . . Rick’s thoughts came like spoken words, echoing through the

light, through the pleasure. What. . .is. . .happening. . .to. . .me?YOU AND MY SPAWN SHALL BE JOINED. YOUR COMING HAS BEEN ANTICIPATED

FOR MILLENIA. . .THE ONLY HUMAN POWERFUL ENOUGH TO HOLD MY ESSENCE.Images erupted from the light surrounding him, views of the past, of history’s inevitable

march to that precise moment in time. He saw his ancestors, living and dying, unaware of the darkness that loomed about each and every one of them.

FOR UNTOLD AGES, I HAVE GUIDED THOSE WHO WOULD SPAWN YOU UNTO THIS EARTH. YOU ARE MY CREATION, MY CHILD, THOUGH BORN OF HUMAN FLESH. NOW, YOU SHALL FINALLY ATTAIN A LEVEL GREATER THAN THAT OF HUMANITY.

Rick struggled to think through the madness of the pleasure that coursed through his soul, tried to think through the shaking and spasming of every part of his body.

What. . .if. . .I. . .refuse?

There was a rumbling about him that sounded vaguely like laughter.YOU SHALL NOT REFUSE. ALREADY, YOU HAVE ACCEPTED YOUR FATE.Rick was about to protest, but something stopped him.For the first time in his life, he felt truly happy, free in ways that he had never imagined

possible. His problems with his family, his resentment towards his father – none of that seemed to matter anymore.

My whole life, I’ve been told there’s something wrong with me, that I’m a disappointment, a disgrace. That can all change. I can be somebody that my father could never be.

He smiled.The void rumbled.It feels so good. . .“Well?” said his father. “What are you waiting for?”He glanced around, surprised to find himself back in the cavern. His body and mind still

brimmed with intense pleasure.Serve me well, my son, a quiet voice whispered through his mind.Rick stared at the woman. Her eyelids fluttered, and for the first time he noticed that the

remnants of her clothes were caked with dried blood. At the moment, that didn’t concern him in the slightest. He turned and gazed at his father. The man’s expression was crazed, eager with anticipation, salivating with a lust for dark and unnamable things.

“I understand,” said Rick.Without another word he lunged at his father, swinging the knife in a low arc, grunting as

the blade plunged into his father’s belly. The man’s mouth fell open, and Rick could feel blood pouring over his hands.

“What have you done?” his mother shrieked. She threw herself forward, and Rick leapt to the side. She tripped on the hem of her dress and sprawled to the floor.

“Your services are no longer needed. None of you are needed any more.”Rick’s father staggered backward, mouth still open in horrified surprise, hands clutching the

hilt of the jagged blade. He tumbled to the ground, kicking weakly as his body came to rest. Rick bent down and snatched the gun, pointing it at his mother just as she managed to climb to her feet.

“How could you,” she spat, clenching and unclenching her fists. “He’s your father-”“And he would have killed me.” Rick cut her off. “Both of you would have. You tried to

keep this from me. You betrayed me. All of you did.” Rick spat on the floor.“He doesn’t need you anymore.”“What are you talking about?” she said, pushing herself upright with hands that shook

visibly.“Your time is at an end. That voice. . .that power. . . has chosen me.”“No. . .that’s not true!” his mother snarled. “That’s impossible!” Without another word, she charged forward. A deafening blast split the air as Rick pulled

the trigger.“What. . .have. . .you . . .done,” she gasped, collapsing.Rick looked down at the gun. A wisp of smoke rose from the barrel. He looked over at his

mother and saw her lying on the floor, clutching a bleeding wound in her chest.“You. . .bastard…” she muttered. Her body trembled for a moment, then grew still.

Rick snorted. He tucked the gun into his waistband and walked over to where the chained woman lay, kneeling beside her.

“This doesn’t concern you,” he said. “Leave if you want.”She did not respond. She reached out to him, lifting her head, opening her mouth to speak.

Then she went limp. Her arm hit the floor, and she stared blankly forward.Rick gazed at her for a moment, guessing that the wounds beneath her ragged clothing were

deeper than he’d originally thought. He shrugged, standing up, turning his back on the three bodies as he headed for the door.

When he reached the bottom of the stairs he un-tucked his shirt, letting it fall over the gun. He ascended, and when he neared the top he paused, trying to listen to the hushed conversation that came from above. His body tingled with near-orgasmic sensation, and he fought not to laugh out loud.

The instant he entered, all talking ceased, and all eyes fell on him. There was a moment’s hesitation before the whole room erupted into applause and cheers. His uncle Jack and Great Aunt Rose rushed forward, beaming.

“I thought you were a goner!” Uncle Jack said, “but you made the right choice after all!”“Oh, I knew you would,” said Great Aunt Rose. “I knew you were a bright one!”“But why did the gun go off?” asked Uncle Jack. “As soon as we heard it we figured, well,

you know. . .”Rick tried to look sheepish.“She wouldn’t die,” he said. “I tried to cut her throat, but I must not have done it right.” He

looked down at his father’s blood, which covered his hands and a good portion of his jacket. For some reason he found the red liquid extremely amusing, and had to fight with renewed strength to keep from laughing. “I was making a mess,” he continued. “Dad said it was OK if I used the gun.”

A few people chuckled.“They’re still down there, cleaning up,” he said. “They said to tell all of you that they’ll be

up soon.”Uncle Jack nodded. “Why don’t you go and tidy up? You could use some fresh clothes. And a shower,” he

said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a shiny brass key.“This will unlock the library doors. Go up to your room through the back staircase. The

help won’t see you then. Wash up, and come on back down for some cake.”Rick nodded, heading toward the double doors. He unlocked them, stepped out of the

library, and shut them tightly behind him. As soon as they were closed, he quickly locked them again.

Immediately, laughter seized him. This time, he didn’t fight it. There was but a single key to the library - his parents had made that clear on more than one occasion – and the lock was quite strong. Rick slid the key into his pocket, then walked quickly up the stairs. When he reached the first floor, he stopped off at the kitchen and grabbed a book of matches from a little canister on the counter. His mother always kept them there, in case she and his father were in the mood for a romantic candlelit dinner.

“There won’t be any more of those for you,” he said. “You’ll be fucking in hell from now on.”

He tossed the matchbook up and caught it, grinning.I don’t know what that thing did to me, and I don’t care. This is better than beer.

He put the matchbook in his pocket and trotted out the back door. When he was outside, he headed towards the worker’s shed, which sat on the back edge of the property. The shed contained all of the necessary equipment for keeping the grounds in good shape. It also housed several canisters of gasoline.

Rick whistled as he hefted two of the containers, knowing that his prey was well contained. Of course, there was the chance that they’d head into the cavern and discover his parents’ bodies, and there was the chance that their combined strength would be enough to overcome the lock.

But that power is on my side. There’s not a damn thing those people can do to me now. He headed back to the house.I can’t wait to hear those lying bastards scream.

Deadwood Drive

In the house at the end of Deadwood Drive, there’s something downstairs that isn’t alive.Tim’s eyes sprung open as the phrase echoed through his head. He reached over and

switched on the lamp that sat next to his bed, disoriented from the sleep that stubbornly clung to his mind.

For a few seconds he merely sat there, hand still on the light switch, not able to think beyond what he had just heard. As the minutes ticked by and he grew more lucid, he removed his hand from the lamp.

It’s starting again, he thought.After more than twenty years without having heard those words, Tim knew that the

nightmares had returned. But that’s impossible. It’s been so long. I’m much older now, beyond all of that. Why is

this happening?Tim had no answer for that question. He hadn’t so much as thought of Deadwood Drive in

years. The last time he’d dreamed of the place had been when he was nine years old, and still afraid of the dark.

The dream is back, though. As little sense as it makes, I can’t argue with the facts.Tim’s stomach began to flutter, and he took a deep breath. The familiar fear at the

remembrance of the little poem - sang in the high, taunting voice of a demonic child - began to eat away at his mind.

You’re not a kid anymore, he told himself. There’s no reason to fear those stupid dreams. Deadwood Drive doesn’t exist. It’s imaginary.

Tim took another deep breath, thinking back to his terrifying nights as a child, always afraid of the nightmares that seemed to stalk him every night, ready to pounce and drag him screaming off to some terrible place.

Deadwood Drive was, more often than not, the inevitable destination to where his horrible dreams carried him with apparent glee. It was a road that Tim had never seen or heard of before, save in nightmares.

At the end of the road, in the center of an overgrown yard, was a huge, ancient house that sagged as if the sins of generations sat upon it. Every window in the place was boarded up, there were holes in the roof, and it looked as if it would fall over at the first gust of wind that came along.

Each time he saw the house looming in his dreams, the same thing happened. Powerless, he was propelled towards it, listening as the childlike voice began to chant about the dead thing in the basement. The dream always ended the same way; Tim would reach the front door, then scream himself awake just as he was pushed inside.

There’s nothing to be afraid of, he thought. It was just a stupid dream. It can’t hurt you.Tim closed his eyes, and tried to force all thoughts of the old nightmare from his mind. It

wasn’t easy, and he had a difficult time falling back to sleep.

#

Tim swore as he listened to the traffic report. The expressway was completely jammed due to an accident involving an overturned tanker truck. There had been a massive chemical spill, and cleanup crews had yet to arrive on the scene.

As much as he hated the idea of taking the back roads home, he knew that he had no choice. It would take hours to get the mess cleaned up. He just hoped that he wouldn’t wind up lost. The last time he’d tried to circumvent the expressway, he’d gotten completely turned around, and had spent far longer trying to get home than if he would have just toughed it out and dealt with the traffic.

But that was just an ordinary traffic jam, he thought, not a freaking chemical spill. Tim swung his pickup truck out of the exit lane and kept heading south on Route 48. As he

drove, he tried to picture where he had gone wrong the last time. After a few minutes of thinking, he felt reasonably sure that if he took 48 all the way down to Lincoln, he’d have no problem getting back home.

About forty minutes and a half a dozen dead-ends later, he realized that he had again made a terrible error.

Where the hell did I mess up this time? Lincoln should have taken me right back where I needed to be.

Regardless of what should have happened, Tim found himself in a completely unknown part of town. He’d made the cardinal error of turning into a honeycomb of side streets that, like most suburban roads, wound about in a way that was totally haphazard. Each time he felt sure that he was headed in the right direction, the road would suddenly curve and send him heading some place else.

If I ever find a gas station, I’m asking for directions. Screw the macho bullshit.Tim stopped at yet another intersection, flicked on his turn signal, and turned right. At that

point, thoughts of finding his way home through the tangle of streets had ceased. All he wanted was to find his way back to the expressway, traffic jam or no.

Ellis Avenue. Shagbark Lane. Pinetree Circle. Nothing looked familiar. Tim continued to drive, staring at each street sign he passed, hoping to God that one of them

would jog his memory. As he approached the end of the road, he glanced at the final sign on his left-hand side. As

he read the name, he inadvertently slammed his foot down on the brake pedal. His mouth fell open, and his throat grew tight.

“Deadwood Drive,” he said quietly. “I’ll be damned.”Tim sat there for a moment longer, debating on what to do.This is the last street. Either I turn here, or I turn around.For a moment, he considered pulling into a nearby driveway and going back the way he had

come.Don’t be ridiculous. It’s only a coincidence. Just turn down the damn road and calm down.He flipped on his signal, and made the turn. He drove slowly down the road, looking at the

houses that lined its sides. The street seemed completely normal, like everything else in the neighborhood. Here and there a child was out playing, and an occasional car passed by on his left.

Regardless of his benign surroundings, Tim remained tense as he drove down the winding street, and felt his blood pressure skyrocket as a playground ball flew out in front of his truck. He slammed on the brakes, just as a blonde-haired boy ran into the road. The boy looked up in surprise as the truck screeched to a halt.

Tim felt as if his heart would beat itself to death. He tried to take a deep breath, but his breathing had grown hopelessly rapid.

Jesus Christ. I nearly killed that kid.The boy looked to be about eight or nine years of age, and he continued to stare at the truck,

his bright red ball completely forgotten. When Tim felt that he had enough control of himself to speak, he rolled down the window and leaned out.

“Hey, kid!” he shouted. “Get your ball, and get back on the sidewalk!”The child started, then ran to grab his ball. Tim watched him pick it up, and kept his eye on

him as he walked quickly back toward the curb. Tim was about to keep moving when the boy suddenly began to slow down, stopping just before he reached the grass at the side of the road. Slowly, he turned around.

“Get back on the sidewalk,” Tim said again. “Someone’s going to hit you if you stand in the road like that.”

The boy didn’t respond. Tim opened his mouth to renew his demands, when the boy slowly began to approach his

truck.“Hey,” Tim said. “You need to get off the road. It’s dangerous.”The child ignored him, and continued to walk forward until he was standing just underneath

Tim’s window. When he reached the side of the truck, he craned his neck upward and regarded him with a pair of wide blue eyes.

“You want to turn around, mister,” he whispered. “What?” said Tim.“You want to get out of here,” the boy said, continuing to talk quietly. “You’ll disappear,

just like everyone else.”“What are you talking about?” said Tim, fighting the tingling sensation that suddenly danced

across the back of his neck.“The grown-ups don’t believe me. They won’t listen. They keep telling me that he doesn’t

exist.”“Who?” said Tim.“The warlock,” said the little boy. “I’ve seen him up at the house, peeking out of the

windows. He waits for strangers, then he takes them. I don’t know how many he’s gotten so far. Please, mister, just turn around and go home.”

Tim’s body began to tremble, and for a moment he actually considered peeling out and heading back the way he had come.

Stop it, he told himself. This kid is just like you were when you were that age. Scared of shit that doesn’t exist.

“Listen,” said Tim. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but you have to get out of the road. Someone is going to come along and hit you.”

“Please,” said the boy, speaking more urgently. “You’ve got to listen to me. People have tried to kill him before, but he won’t die. You won’t be able to stop him.”

“Listen,” said Tim, trying to keep his voice from quivering. “In a minute, I’m going to drive forward. If you’re still standing there, there’s a good chance that I’ll run over your toes.”

Tim rolled up his window, and noticed with a sense of satisfaction that the boy had taken a few steps back. Making sure that the kid was a good distance away, Tim pulled away and left the boy standing in the center of the road.

#

This cannot be happening, Tim thought. No way in hell.Regardless of what he told himself, there was no disputing what Tim saw before him. At the

end of Deadwood Drive, where the road abruptly dead-ended into an overgrown gravel driveway, was the house that had haunted Tim’s childhood dreams.

It stood like a brooding fiend, overlooking the ratty landscape that surrounded it on all sides. There were indeed holes in the roof, and every window was crisscrossed with rotting boards. The only opening of the house that wasn’t barricaded was the front door. It gaped from across the overgrown yard, seeming to beckon him.

Tim pulled his truck into the driveway and put it in park. He sat there for a moment, too dumfounded to move. Though he was terrified of the house, his curiosity overshadowed his fear, and he could not bring himself to leave.

How is this possible?Tim stared at the sloping peaks and sagging balconies of the old house, and marveled at how

beautiful it must have looked when it had first been built. If he had to guess, he would have estimated the house’s age at a minimum of 150 years. It was undoubtedly one of the first homes that had been built in the area.

But why have I dreamed about it?That, he could not explain. There was no rational explanation for why he had seen the exact

same house in the terrifying nightmares of his childhood.Tim sat and stared at it for a while longer, then reached over and opened his glove box.

Inside was a loaded 9mm pistol. He picked it up and double-checked the safety.In my dreams, I never had one of these, he thought.The gun felt good in his hand. He felt strong and confident when he held it, like there was

no one in the world who could hurt him.He opened the door and slid the pistol into his waistband as he slowly made his way up the

driveway. The gravel crunched under his work boots, and he tried to walk more quietly. Though he knew that the house was empty, he could not ignore the feeling that he was being watched.

There’s no one inside. There can’t be. This place has probably been abandoned for years.Tim abruptly turned to the left, and headed across what was left of the front lawn toward the

open door. Though every instinct in his body told him to turn around and leave, he had no intention of doing so. The house had filled him with fear since he was a child, and he intended to prove to himself once and for all that there was nothing inside that warranted concern.

He reached the front of the house, and mounted the rickety wooden steps that led up to the door. When he reached it, he stood there and listened. He heard nothing. There was not so much as a breath of wind, and the house was completely silent.

In the house at the end of Deadwood Drive, there’s something downstairs that isn’t alive.The rhyme ran through his mind again, as if activated by the proximity of the front door. He

ignored it and stepped inside, listening to the wooden floor groan as he put his weight on it.He found himself in a narrow foyer that opened into two sizable rooms on either side. A

decaying staircase marched upward to his left. He took a few more steps in, glancing back and forth between each room. They were completely empty, save for a few wayward branches and scraps of wood that littered the floor.

Though he knew that the house was in horrible shape and the possibility of a collapse was very real, he continued anyway. A part of him almost felt drawn, like there was something in the house that he had to see.

He headed for the hallway on the right-hand side of the staircase. It ran toward the back of the house, and Tim had a feeling that if he followed it, he’d find a doorway that led down to the basement.

Because that’s where I have to go. To see that there really is nothing down there.He continued down the hallway, passing through a small doorway that led to the broken

remains of a kitchen. The cabinetry was in pieces; the few remaining fixtures that were still mounted to the walls looked as if they would tumble to the ground if touched, and what was left of the sink was filled to the top with a pile of dirt and debris. Tim walked further into the kitchen, and spotted what he had been looking for.

A rotting doorway stood in the far wall, slightly ajar, revealing only the darkness beyond. Tim’s heart began to pound even more fiercely when he saw it, and he pulled his pistol from his waistband and took the safety off.

In the house at the end of Deadwood Drive, there’s something downstairs that isn’t alive.“Is there, now?” he whispered to himself, unable to suppress the tremor in his voice.He walked slowly forward, until he was directly in front of the door. He pushed it open,

wincing as the rusted hinges protested loudly.Though the stairs were dim, he could see them well enough. They were in no better shape

than the steps out front.Despite the fear that continued to rise with every step he took, Tim began to descend. He

did his best to ignore the way the stairs rocked under his weight, gripping the rough railing with his left hand and aiming the gun with his right. He went as carefully as he could, not wanting to put any undue stress on the steps, until he reached the earthen floor of the cellar.

He looked around and found that, considering the relative size of the house, the cellar was actually quite small. It was surrounded by three crumbling walls, two of which had narrow windows at the top. Like the rest of the windows in the home, they were boarded, but enough light got through the cracks in the boards for Tim to get a fairly good look at the room.

A wood-framed wall sat exactly opposite the stairs. Off to the right, a half-decomposed door hung askew in its frame. With ever increasing trepidation, Tim made his way toward it.

When he reached it, he did not enter at first. Though part of him wanted nothing more than to push the rotting thing to the side and get it over with, his instincts were on such high alert that his mind seemed to be preventing his hands from moving.

Are you nuts? A voice screamed into his mind. Don’t go in there! Get the hell out of this house!

“But I have to know,” he whispered. “I have to know what’s there.”With a great deal of effort he managed to raise his left hand, and he pushed on the decaying

door. It fell to pieces before him, practically disintegrating as it hit the hard, packed earth of the floor.

He stood there for a moment longer, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness of the room, before stepping in.

Unlike the room he had just left, there were no windows here. A slight amount of light filtered in through gaps in the wood planking of the wall, but nothing more. As he made his way toward the center of the room, he noticed something squatting in the middle of the floor. He quickly took aim with his gun, muscles tense and heart pounding, before realizing that it was just a chair.

Trying his best to steady his nerves, he cautiously made his way over to it. Unlike everything else in the house, the chair appeared to be fairly sturdy. Tim reached out a hand and

rested it on the chair’s rectangular back. His assumptions were correct; it was as solid as a rock, and it did not budge even as Tim exerted more pressure on it. He stooped down to get a better look, and noticed that there were a pair of moldering leather restraints fastened to the armrests.

The sight of the restraints made him inexplicably queasy, and as he turned back towards the exit he nearly jumped out of his skin as something bumped his thigh. He leapt backward, brandishing his pistol before realizing that his potential target was nothing more than a squat table. Tim approached it slowly and ran his hand over its surface, then pulled it abruptly back as it brushed against something pointy. He bent down to see what it was that had nearly pricked him, and drew his breath in sharply.

The layer of dust on the table was fairly thick, but not so dense that Tim could not see what lie underneath it. A number of rusty metal implements were neatly arranged on its surface. They were sharp, jagged, curved, hooked, and represented an alarming array of shapes and sizes.

Tim’s stomach began to churn at the sight of them, and at the understanding that began to seep its way into his mind.

I’m getting the hell out of here.He turned to leave, and paused as a sudden whispering filled the room. It sounded as if

hundreds of people lay concealed in the darkness, conversing in hushed and frenzied tones.Without a moment’s hesitation, Tim strode quickly to the doorway. In an instant he was

through, and had only taken two steps into the outer room when he abruptly halted.An old man stood between him and the rotting steps. The man wore a dark cloak and what

appeared to be antique black formalwear. The hood of the cloak covered much of the man’s head, but Tim could still see a good deal of his face. Sickly pale skin stretched itself across his bony features, and he regarded Tim with the red-rimmed eyes of a hungry and half-mad animal.

Tim pointed the gun at him.“Who are you?” he whispered.The old man smiled, as if amused by the fact that a loaded weapon was aimed directly at his

heart.“My name is not important,” the man said in weak and raspy voice. “I am the master of this

home.”“Listen,” said Tim. “I thought this place was abandoned. I’m sorry if I bothered you. Right

now, all I want to do is leave.”“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” said the man. “I’ve been waiting for you. Timothy.”Tim’s eyes widened.“How do you know my name?”The old man chuckled, a sound that made Tim shiver.“Oh, I’ve known you since you were small. I’ve called out to you for years, waiting for the

day when you would come. You, and others like you, are what make my work possible.”The man took a step forward, and Tim raised the pistol.“Stay back,” he said. “One more step, and I swear to god I’ll blow your fucking brains out.”The old man continued to grin, not slowing his advance. Tim pulled the trigger.Though the gun was of a fairly small caliber, the roar that erupted from its muzzle was

practically deafening in the enclosed space. The old man staggered backward, but he did not fall. Tim fired again. The man took another few steps back, still on his feet. Tim pulled the trigger again and again, watching as the force of the bullets pushed the old man further and further back. Still, he remained standing.

Tim pulled the trigger once more, and was rewarded only with a hollow click. He pulled it again, and got the same result.

The old man straightened up and resumed his slow advance. He was still smiling. Aghast, Tim stared at the bullet holes that peppered the man’s clothing. He noticed with horror that the sickly pale skin beneath them was unscathed.

“You can’t kill me,” the man said. “I’m already dead. I’ve haven’t lived in over three hundred years.”

Tim stepped back, closer to the room from which he’d just come.“Yes, that’s right,” said the old man. “You know where you’re going. Now you can turn

and walk there willingly, or I can carry you.”Not knowing what else to do Tim bolted for the stairs, shoulder down, intent on flattening

the man before him. Despite his apparent age, the old man was frighteningly spry. In a single, quick motion, he sidestepped Tim’s assault, grasping him around the neck in the process.

Tim cried out, shocked at the man’s strength. He swung his fists at his captor, connecting with his body, but the man appeared not to even feel the blows.

“Your feeble struggles will get you nowhere,” he said. “You are mine, now. Accept it, and your death will be marginally easier.”

The old man began to push him towards the darkened opening that led to the room with the chair. Tim screamed, struggling with renewed force. Bit by bit, the man forced him closer to the room.

“Let him go.”The man’s grip faltered, and Tim broke free. He spun around toward the stairs, and saw that

they had again been blocked. This time, the blonde-haired boy that he had spoken with in the street stood between the exit and the basement room.

The old man grew suddenly rigid.“You,” he spat, his grin disappearing for the first time since Tim had seen him.“You can’t have him,” the boy said.“I can have who I wish!”“Not anymore,” the boy said, shaking his head. “It’s over.”The old man strode forward, raising one of his hands. Tim could have been mistaken, but it

appeared to be glowing bright red, as if with some infernal fire.The boy raised one of his own hands, and the man was thrown back against the wooden

wall. It shook, and for an instant looked as if it would collapse.“How dare you!” the man said, shooting to his feet. “Not one more step,” said the boy, “or I’ll do it again.”The old man stopped, yellowed teeth bared in a terrible snarl.“You can’t stop me,” he said. “If I can’t take him, then I’ll take someone else.”“And how long will that take?” said the boy. “You’re running out of time. You haven’t had

a sacrifice in over five decades. You can’t survive much longer.”The old man said nothing.“Your time is up, Mr. Warlock. You can’t have this one. You can’t have anyone else,

either. Not as long as I’m alive.”“Then we’ll just have to do something about that,” the man said, still bearing his teeth.The boy raised his hand, and the old man flew backwards and struck the wall again.“I can keep doing this,” the boy said. “I know it won’t kill you, but it will keep you away.”Again the old man stood, but he did not try to move forward.

“Go back into the ground, where you belong. Lay there and die. You’ve already lived long enough. Everyone has to die sometime.”

“You have no idea what you’re doing,” the man said darkly. “You’re interfering in things that are far beyond your ability to understand.”

“I understand enough,” the boy said. “I understand that you’re up to no good down here, and I’m not going to let you get away with it.”

The old man growled, a sound that was striking in its animalistic qualities, and Tim shivered.

“You will live to regret this, young one. I don’t know what lies about my longevity your foolish grandfather has told you, but I’ll tell you this: I cannot die.”

The old man cast one final, hate-filled glare at the boy, then began to sink slowly into the earth. The whispering sound erupted from every corner of the room, and Tim took another baffled step back, watching the dark-cloaked man travel down into the ground as if his body was made of nothing but air. Tim continued to stare, even as the tip of the old man’s hood disappeared into the earth, and the room grew silent once again.

“We need to leave. Now. Before he changes his mind,” said the boy.Tim made no argument. He went straight for the stairs, going up as quickly as he could.

The boy followed, continuing to glance backward over his shoulder the entire way. When they reached the kitchen, Tim ushered the boy ahead, but he shook his head.

“I need to go last. In case he tries to come from behind.”Tim nodded, and headed for the front door.Moments later, they were outside, standing next to Tim’s truck.“What the hell just happened there?” Tim asked breathlessly.“That was the warlock,” said the boy. “I tried to warn you to stay away.”“But. . .how. . .”“I’ll explain everything. Let’s just get away from the house.”

#

Tim pulled his truck up to the curb halfway down the block from the old house, and looked over at his passenger. The boy had said nothing the entire trip.

“I learned about him from my grandfather,” he said suddenly. “The warlock has been in that house for a long time. He lived there when he was still alive. He used to own all of this land.

“But he shut himself up in that house one day, and started selling off his land. My grandfather said that it’s because he was involved in the dark arts.”

“The dark arts?”The boy nodded. “Black magic. Anyway, grandpa said that he found a way to live a long time, but in order to

do it he had to make sacrifices. Grandpa said that the sacrifices had to be brutal. He said that people had to die in pain in order for the warlock’s magic to work.”

Tim swallowed hard, remembering the dark room in the cellar.“As a reward for the sacrifices, he was given special powers. Magic powers. He can do

incredible things, my Grandpa said, and he can stay alive as long as he can find people to sacrifice.

“None of the other people in town ever believed Grandpa. They thought he was crazy. Even my dad started to get tired of his stories. But I never did. I listened to my Grandpa, and I believed him.”

The boy rolled up his right sleeve, and held his arm out towards Tim. A thin metal chain with a spherical charm attached to it encircled his wrist.

“My grandpa gave me this before he died. He said that someone in our family made it a long time ago. There’s something in the ball that keeps evil away.”

The boy grasped the charm and shook it, and Tim could hear the faint sound of something moving about inside.

“What’s in it?” asked Tim.“I asked Grandpa about that,” said the boy, “but he told me he didn’t know. He said that it

could be herbs, or something else. But he said that it worked, and that was the only thing that mattered.

“Right before he died, he told me that my family had kept it around, as a good luck charm, because they were afraid of the warlock. About 50 years ago, my grandpa decided to start using this thing to stop him.

“Grandpa told me that it was stupid to keep it squirreled away in the house, because the warlock never takes people from this town. Grandpa said that the warlock knows that people will start to get suspicious if their neighbors start disappearing. He said that the warlock calls people in from out of town - strangers, like you. He said that before he got involved, people would come into town, drive up to the house, and never come out again. He said that even their cars would disappear overnight.

“So he decided to watch the house. Whenever someone new came into town, he would warn them to stay away. If they wouldn’t listen, he would follow them into the house and wait for the warlock to show up. When he did, he would use this to save the people, just like I did with you.

“Grandpa says that the warlock is dying. He said that he can’t survive much longer without another sacrifice, and he said that each time he stopped him from getting someone, the warlock looked older and older.

“I don’t think he has much time left,” said the boy, “he looked pretty old to me.”“Yeah,” Tim said quietly. “He did.”The boy was silent for a minute.“Why did you come here?” he asked.Tim was quiet, thinking about everything he had seen and experienced. The boy waited

patiently for a response. Finally, Tim spoke up.“I used to have nightmares about this street when I was a kid. I got lost in your

neighborhood today, and when I came across this road I thought it was just a coincidence. I was still curious though, so I drove down it and found that house at the end. I suppose it was pretty stupid of me to go in there,” he said, “but I was just so damn curious. It was almost like I couldn’t tell myself not to go on.”

The boy nodded. “We have to do something about that house,” said Tim. “It’s got to be burned down.”The boy shook his head.“Grandpa said that burning it down won’t help. He says that there’s a chance that burning it

down might even free him.”“What do you mean?”

“Grandpa said that he’s somehow tied to that house. That’s why he can’t go out and get people himself. He has to lure them inside, just like he did with you.”

“And he thought that burning the house down might actually help the warlock?”The boy nodded.“He wasn’t sure if it would or not, but he never wanted to take the chance.”“I can see why,” said Tim.The boy said nothing for a moment.“I promised my grandfather that I wouldn’t let him take anyone else,” he said suddenly.

“When he died, my grandfather made me promise to help people if they needed it. Until now, I haven’t had to.”

“I’m sorry,” said Tim. “I didn’t mean to get you involved in all this.”The boy shook his head.“It’s OK. I knew that one day I’d have to save someone. And I’ll probably have to keep

doing it, at least until he finally dies.”“That’s a lot of responsibility for someone so young,” Tim said.The boy shrugged.“Someone’s got to do it. Since none of the grownups will believe me, I guess it’s just going

to have to be my job.”Tim hesitated for a moment, then reached over and opened the glove box. He pulled a dirty

pad of paper and a pen out, and scribbled his name and number on one of the sheets. He tore it off and handed it to the boy.

“That’s my phone number,” he said. “If you ever need any help here, you call me. I owe you one.”

The little boy looked at him with a grateful expression, and smiled. He glanced at the piece of paper.

“Tim?”“Yeah, that’s my name.”The boy extended one of his hands. “My name’s Clarence.”Tim took it, and shook.“Pleased to meet you, Clarence.”

#

Long after Tim and Clarence had parted ways and darkness had fallen on the house at the end of Deadwood Drive, something moved near one of the windows. To a casual observer, it may have looked like nothing more than a piece of refuse blowing through the ramshackle house. But if Tim or Clarence had seen it, they would have recognized it for what it really was: the dark hood of a cloak, fluttering in the breeze, framing a pair of red-rimmed eyes.

The eyes glared into the darkness, peering out at the moon-bathed landscape of the town. A look of blinding hostility dominated their gaze, and one could almost hear the whispers that were carried along the path of their sight; whispers that spoke to sleeping children about a place called Deadwood Drive, and a terrible house that sat decaying at the end of the road.

###

About the Author:

Ben Crofton is a lifelong Chicago suburban native, and has been an avid writer since high school. What attracts Ben to horror? Mainly the fact that he has always found the genre to be highly entertaining. That is, after all, the whole reason Ben writes - for the enjoyment and entertainment of others (and also because of fact that if he didn't write, he'd probably lose his mind).

In his spare time, Ben enjoys spending time with his family, working out, gardening, random home-improvement projects, gaming, reading, listening to (and, to a lesser extent, writing) music, volunteerism, and a host of other mismatched and potentially confounding activities.

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