“Do not be late, my dear,” she reminds me. I notice her left hand tightly gripping the umbrella handle—almost like she’s massaging a stress ball. “Your timely arrival is critical.”
“I’ll be there with minutes to spare.”
I can’t risk pushing the window up too high and having it screech. I’ll need to squeeze through the inadequate space available. Unless my ass has swelled over the past hour, my body should clear the opening by nearly an inch. I place my hands on the windowsill and enter headfirst into the grotesque dining room. I angle my feet to face north and south of each other. This uncomfortable position is the only way to ensure that my boots won’t get stuck or shatter the window. I can hear the chipped, lead-based paint cracking off as I slide inside. So much for a healthy break-in!
It doesn’t make sense that she could open a doorway into 1994, yet she couldn’t spring open a locked basement window. Why question what I don’t fully understand? I believe she said that earlier.
After pulling myself from the dining room floor, I give Abbey the thumbs up sign. She is standing below with the umbrella nestled under her left arm. She’s safe as a kitten while I’m standing inside a house occupied by my crazy uncle—fresh off a killing spree. It’s one thing to break into a house, but another to know you’re not alone. The last time I unlawfully entered a house, I was stabbed. That memory isn’t filling me with confidence.
“Ms. McAllister,” she whispers, moving closer to the window. “Do not switch on the basement light at the entrance to the cellar.”
“How will I be able to locate the laundry chute?”
She reaches up and hands over an antique flashlight with a bright red handle. “Use this, but I must warn you that the batteries are running quite low.”
“How low?”
“Low enough that you will need to preserve whatever energy you can. It would be unfortunate not to have the power when you genuinely need it.”
“I’ll use it sparingly,” I whisper, enthusiastically. I’m not one to snub a gift, even when the power needs to be rationed. “I better get my butt in motion.”
Before making my way through the house, I give her one final wave to indicate that I’m fine—well as fine as one can be in a fucked-up situation like this. I look down at the pocket watch to check the remaining time. In what feels like a split second, Abbey is no longer standing in the backyard.
I look in both directions, but she is long gone. She took her sweet-ass time walking over here, but she can move like a cheetah when she so desires. I’ll chalk it up as another spooky moment courtesy of this buzz that sure isn’t dimming fast enough.
I hold onto the flashlight and take baby steps through the kitchen. This turdpile of a house creaks way too much for comfort. The distinct and familiar smell of exhaled marijuana saturates the stale air. Maybe Willie will be too sluggish to investigate any noise I might accidentally make en route to the basement. I’ve been quite successful at sneaking into Trudy’s house in the dark hours of the night by being light on my feet—but I’ve also memorized all the creaks in her place.
Fortunately, the glow illuminating from the stove’s digital clock clearly lights the cracked basement door at the end of the room. The blackness of that sinister entryway is sending my nerves into overload, although I cannot wait to get beyond this revolting kitchen. The sink is overflowing with dirty dishes. Don’t even get me started on the counters littered with empty cereal and macaroni boxes. To make matters worse, I’m trying to walk on cheap linoleum without producing any suspicious noises. That’s hard to do when the floor is littered with newspapers, crumpled paper towels, and little black specs that could be mouse shit. The room has the appearance of a cheap meth lab. Rent a Rug Doctor, asshole!
Although Willie is getting baked while playing a video game, a tense feeling remains. I’m worried he may charge around the corner at any second. Each mini step I take with my reasonably-sized feet seems more amplified because my boots feel heavier than usual. Why can’t these old houses be carpeted? It would help when idiots like me break into them. I should have removed my boots, but there is no way I would allow any bare skin to make contact with such a scurvy floor.
The video game is so loud that the pocket-sized speaker on the TV crackles as the hum of imitation racecars grates on my overtaxed nerves. If that wasn’t enough, walking through the darkened doorway into the basement is straining my adrenals to their breaking point. It took nearly five minutes just to sneak through the bedraggled kitchen. A horror movie could be filmed here, and the decorator would not need to make any modifications to the set.
Before I take my first step down the creaky staircase, I glance at the significant cracks in the frame around the door. This house is in such disrepair that it could collapse on me while I’m down there. I’ve always been terrified of tornadoes because I can’t stand the idea of being trapped in a basement with the entire house in a pile above it. I’d fucking freak out! Wait a second . . . this house has stood through years of neglect well into 2019. That means this will not be the day when the house finally sinks into the Earth. What a break! It’s time to make my way into complete blackness. God help me!
In one hand, I have a death grip on the square wooden rail while the other is grasping the flashlight. I flip on the beam and realize that it will take eleven more steps before reaching the dirty cement floor. Walking in heeled boots isn’t making the declination any less challenging. Preserving the flashlight’s battery will be difficult to do with so much “unknown” waiting below in the pitch black.
“Mandi, Mandi, Mandi,” I whisper. “What did you get yourself into this time?”
Darkness descends when you’re alone and feeling trapped. All sounds are also intensified when you can’t see what lies ahead. I’ve never been a fan of hide and seek or haunted houses, but both would be superior to searching around a dank cellar that is humid enough to sprout potatoes from the cracks in the floor. The random squeal of a nearby cockroach makes me cringe. I know he can’t eat much, but that fact doesn’t make me any less disconcerted. The musty smell down here is evocative of being in a gross roadside bathroom where a wet gob of toilet paper is always stuck to the concrete floor.
I click on the flashlight for a few seconds in a desperate attempt to locate the laundry chute. Several white sheets are hanging from a clothesline strung across part of the room. There is nothing like an unexpected obstruction to wear my nerves thinner. Those sheets make the search twice as eerie. Luckily, I can make out the washer and dryer against the far wall. Directly above the washing machine is the small window I plan to climb through to make my getaway. I would attempt to leave through the dining room again, but returning to the main floor might be pressing my luck. Getting inside an elevated window is always easier than climbing out of one—much like the difficulty of clambering from a tree fort.
Common sense dictates that the laundry chute should be in the vicinity of the washing machine. I turn off the flashlight, taking cautious steps in that direction. My preliminary survey verified that nothing was obstructing the passage from here to the dryer. After a dozen terrifying steps, the smell of the concrete foundation is overpowered by the unmistakable stench of B.O. Jesus Christ . . . it smells like Willie dropped a deuce on the floor!
Upon taking a few more tiny steps, the intensity of the stink is mushrooming. A rotting corpse could be decomposing down here. Although switching on the flashlight will give away my exact location, the terror of not knowing if I’m being stalked is far worse. I click it on and pivot slowly in a circle. About two-thirds of the way around, the light shines on a woman wearing a striped blouse. I jump back causing the flashlight to clank on the floor. Oh shit! What if Willie heard it strike the concrete? Metal colliding with cement creates a high-pitched echo. Luckily, the light stays on, but I’m worried the woman will snag the flashlight before I can regain a grip on it.
Does the twisted prick have a hostage tied up down here?
I reach down, pick up the f
lashlight, and take two steps backward. When I shine the beam on the woman, I’m relieved to discover it’s only a female mannequin with blonde hair, no face, and dressed like a Dillard’s window display. Well almost! It is wearing crotchless panties and thigh-high fishnet stockings.
“How can I be related to such a sick fuck,” I whisper. Most perverts have the etiquette to spring for a blow-up doll opposed to banging a hunk of plastic that can’t even look back at them. He probably took the time to cut open an orifice, but I’m not about to carefully inspect the crotch of a substitute for a breathing date. Willie, have some decency and draw a pair of eyes on the helpless thing. No matter how you slice it, the whole concept is disturbing.
I need to be exceptionally quiet from this moment forward. If Willie catches me hunting around down here, I’ll probably be ensnared and tied to the hot water pipes until he can bring down a mirror. I certainly don’t want to become his next victim. Since he obviously gets busy with that generic mannequin, who knows what type of depraved shit he might do to a woman with a pulse—even if I claimed to be his time-traveling niece. I need to put that thought out of my mind before I get sick to my stomach.
I appear to be alone, yet the rankness still hangs in the air. Darkness may hide the filth, but it can’t mask the odor. I’ll need hosed down like a circus animal and deloused after this creepy scavenger hunt. I shine the beam to the right and locate the nasty culprit: a pile of filthy clothes marinating in their own putridity. Above the heap, a rectangular beam runs from the ceiling to about three feet above the floor. I bend down to see the square opening of the laundry chute. Of course, it’s directly above the collection of soiled clothes. Nothing can ever be a breeze!
I click on the flashlight and peer down at the pocket watch. In approximately seventeen minutes, the police will be arriving on Willie’s porch. Time always moves fast when doing something risky. It didn’t help that it took so long to inch across the kitchen floor.
I need to move my ass!
There is no time to move any of this filth to the side. My webcam customers usually come up with some revolting requests, but nothing can rival with having to place my bare knees atop this pile of feculent boxers and sweaty wife-beater T-shirts. It smells like Willie doesn’t thoroughly wipe his ass, so I’m on the perimeter of projectile puking. To break from the chains that have been holding me down, it appears I’ll need to get pretty messy!
I cover my nose with my left hand and use my right to shine the beam up the chute. To my relief, the gun is swathed in duct tape just a foot or so inside the opening. Unfortunately, the path to snatching the pistol is obstructed by a grotesque pair of white boxer shorts caught on a loose piece of duct tape. I try to disenthrall the boxers with the edge of the flashlight but with no success. Shit! I’ll have to release the soiled skivvies with my bare hand. I’d give $50 for one of those blue cleaning gloves that Trudy is always wearing. Actually, I’d like to step into a jumpsuit made out of that material.
Reluctantly, I reach up and grip the putrid boxers. As I yank them free, my index finger runs across something that feels furry. Gross! Could his boxers have sprouted hair? The blackness is simultaneously turning my stomach and playing tricks on my head.
I lean under the aluminum tube and aim the flashlight beam up the chute. I reach inside with my other hand to remove the gun. At this angle, it’s so difficult to maneuver. Slow down, Mandi. Haste gets you nowhere. I take a minute to catch my breath before recommencing. A few pieces of tape pull loose from the aluminum but not enough for the pistol to release. When I shine the beam a few inches higher, the pointed ears and beady eyes of a bat’s face protrude from its folded wings. I unintentionally scream like a tween girl. The bat’s horrific body is hanging from the head of a nail—no more than an inch from the barrel of the revolver.
Within ten seconds, the rumbling volume of the television silences and footsteps begin moving around on the floorboards above me. Willie must have heard my bellowing shriek of terror. My heart is accelerating to a dangerous rhythm.
“Oh, fuck!” I whisper.
This is the million-dollar moment. I have to reach inside that hole and grab the pistol without a finger being bit by that grotesque creature of the night. I have to take into account that my index finger came in contact with the creepy little bastard and didn’t stir him. He might be playing possum. Jesus Christ, I can’t do this. Other than my arms flailing, I’m practically frozen in my tracks. I’ve come too far not to retrieve that damn handgun.
I probably have less than two minutes before he inspects the basement. Trembling, I feel inside the chute until my fingers glide over the cold metal of the gun. My hand is practically debilitated by the prospect of those razor-sharp rabid bat teeth latching onto a finger. I grasp the weapon, yank hard, and release the gun from its duct-taped prison.
With the pistol securely in my hand, I roll off the putrid mound of clothing and rush to the corner of the room. Ever-so-carefully, I climb onto the washing machine. I can feel my weight pushing down on the thin metal lid. This asshole sure can’t buy anything of quality. I’m wondering if he even washes his clothes! Upon removing my feet, the lid is guaranteed to make a loud popping noise. He’ll definitely isolate my location before I’m able to clamber out safely. I reach up, unlatch the window, and slide it to the right. Luckily, the base of the window isn’t painted shut. This has been the only effortless moment thus far.
I place the flashlight and the gun on the lawn. I prop my hands on the windowsill and lift. The washing machine lid releases an audible “ping” upon pulling my body up and out. Thank heavens for my upper-arm strength. As I scramble and squeeze through the tiny opening, fluorescent lights flip on behind me.
Fear is not about to paralyze me, so I pull my legs through the opening. As I lean down and gently slide the window shut, Willie’s legs descend the steps. I scoot away before he reaches the basement floor and can glance in this direction. Luckily, the window didn’t creak as it closed. That was way too close for comfort.
I scoop up the gun and flashlight, racing away from Willie’s house as quickly as my wobbling legs will move. The more time I waste, the less chance I will have of making it to the wishing well on time. Thanks to the furry rodent, that ordeal took longer than I ever expected.
The remaining time on the pocket watch is ticking away quickly. Although this may turn out to be a regret later, a detour is in order. My morbid curiosity is forcing me to make an appearance three blocks away.
I run up Sierra Vista Drive until I reach the white ranch with “4727” nailed above the front door. This address was once quite important to me. I intend to ring the doorbell, but I listen to the voice telling me to refrain. Instead, I peek through the diaphanous white curtain that is slightly-parted in the front window. As I step onto the red rock spread around the front bushes, my stomach drops. On the other side of the glass, my twenty-something estranged mother is reading a Jackie Collins novel in the rocking chair.
A little blonde girl is crouched on the floor putting together a puzzle of the United States. The little girl happens to be me 25 years ago—or in this present; it’s so damn confusing! Since very few childhood pictures exist in my family, seeing me at this young age is surreal. I feel like crying because this may have been the last tranquil night of my life before Willie’s arrest and all the courtroom bullshit that transpired. This is like I’m peeking at a moment of my life through a trippy Viewmaster. I feel a need to look back at where I’ve been to know where I should be heading next.
I look away from the window and focus on the front door. I want to press the handle down, burst inside, and plead with Mom to hold her head up high. Informing her that I’m her daughter from the future would undoubtedly send her over the edge. I am also holding the very gun that sent Willie to the big house. My fingerprints are now slathered all over this mechanism of death.
Not too smart, Mandi.
If I can move my rear and arrive at the wishing well on time, it will hardly b
e necessary to even talk to my mom. Hopefully, Abbey plans to take the gun back to 2019, so there will never be a need to worry about the damn thing again. Maybe . . . just maybe . . . when the sun rises in the morning, this new chain of events will have entirely corrected my problems. With any luck, I’ll wake up to the sound of my mom’s voice rather than to Trudy’s crass bark.
When I raise my head to take one final look, my younger self is standing at the window looking up at me. I can see the simplicity in my younger eyes that was stripped away because of all the strife. I smile back at her (me), back away from the house, and run down the street without looking back. I want to become that happy-go-lucky girl again and see the world through such hopeful eyes.
Nothing will be possible if I don’t get my ass in gear. Leave it to me to make an unscheduled stop when my future happiness is hanging in the balance. Time is ticking down. I need to haul ass!
With less than six-minutes to spare, I arrive at the wishing well. I’m hunched over, gasping for breath like some geezer that spent most of his life smoking rancid cigars. I may be seemingly fit on the surface, but this 29-year-old body desperately needs some time on a treadmill. Honestly, I have not raced like that since I ran sprints during volleyball practice. Because of these boots, the morning is bound to bring about some nasty shin splints and aching muscles.
The blue video store sign is evidence that we are still back in 1994—I better not be stuck here. I was worried that Robbie might be standing in that same frozen position upon returning. The only familiar person is Abbey—looking, once again, like the silhouette of a movie star backlit by the shimmering moon.
“Why are we still back in 1994?” I ask, clutching the pistol in my right hand.
“Because the item you are holding is from 1994. For any changes to occur in your present, the weapon will need to be disposed of in this time.”
Wow, that’s deep!
“What am I supposed to do with it?” I certainly don’t want this gun much longer considering that the bullets discharged from this barrel killed seven people. The police may already be tearing up Willie’s house in search of the evidence that I snagged. Willie will be very confused about the gun disappearing. A vanishing weapon ought to be enough to scare the asshole straight.
In Dark Places Page 11