Ryan's Suffering

by Lloyd Paulson

  Dinner was all but forgotten at this point.

  Rebecca stomped back into the laundry room for a second trap, ignoring the wheezing noise in her throat and annoyed that she had left her inhaler upstairs. When she returned, Rebecca was not surprised when she saw a rat sitting on its haunches, looking at her steadily as she stomped furiously back towards the shelves, her breath whistling in her throat It didn’t scurry away, but regarded her evenly. It sauntered away, back under the shelving as she came closer, as though there wasn’t hurry, as though if she were close enough she wouldn’t bother to stomp its guts out, wheezing the hole time, as though she could care less that there were rats in the goddamned basement right fucking now.

  She collapsed on her knees at the hole in the drywall, forcing herself to breathe deep breaths, somewhat relieved to see that there wasn’t more dirt on the floor.

  Rebecca turned around, scanning the stainless steel shelving for her two buddies, her cheeks flushed. "What’s… the...matter?" She gasped. "You’ve …got relatives… on…food stamps… and …can’t be… bothered …to come out …and …try to… work… for food?"

  If she had any breath left, she would have cackled at her own wit, but settled for an evil grin instead.

  She turned her attention back to the rat trap. She wasn’t in the mood to break her own fingers. When the trap was set, she leaned down, absently brushing her sweaty bangs from her eyes, and pushed the trap into the hole.

  "Eeek!" She yanked her hand out of the hole, and the trap went off, just narrowly missing her fingers in the process. Rebecca jammed her fingers in her mouth, and sucked on them for a moment, before pulling them out and inspecting them. They were bleeding, badly. What the hell? Did one of them bastards just bite her?

  "I don’t… fucking …think so…Mister…" She wasn’t even aware she had spoken out loud.

  Rebecca turned around, looking for something to wrap her hand with, and both rats that had snuck in were sitting on the shelf, boldly and calmly watching her.

  Rebecca desperately lunged at them. "Shoo!"

  They didn’t move.

  "Scat!"

  Their whiskers twitched, and one wiped its face with its paw.

  Still sitting on the floor, Rebecca lunged in sudden fury, grabbed it, and squeezed. It squealed in surprise, and scratched viciously at her. She tightened her grip, her tendons popping out on her arms, and she felt more than heard the bone crunch, and felt the sick squish as organs ruptured inside. The rat’s bowels evacuated in its death throes, squirting their nasty contents all over her, the hot and acrid contents nasty and instantly pungent, but Rebecca didn’t mind, the blood lust overriding her sensibilities.

  The other rat had scrambled safely out of reach, and was chattering madly at her. Her hand, where she had been bitten, was bleeding freely, but she couldn’t feel it now, the adrenaline surge blanking out the feeling for the moment. She tossed the limp body at the other rat, the wheezing in her chest worse.

  She turned around to face the hole in the wall. Rat, after rat, after rat was pouring out of the hole silently and lining up, waiting, and watching her, teeth bared, vicious, and sharp.

  Paul Vischer stepped into view at the end of the aisle, watching, and smiling, a knife at his side.

  "Never should have tried to speak out against me at the zoning hearing, you numb broad. You’ve had this coming for awhile now, Becky Doll."

  Rebecca tried to scream, but all that came out was a harsh croak. Paul laughed quietly.

  Not surprisingly, no one heard Rebecca’s struggle for life. She didn’t have the breath.

  It was not quick, and it was not merciful. Paul made sure that she died knowing that Paul was there for Rebecca’s slut daughter who had been busy fucking his son; this little diversion to get even over the zoning dispute was just a mighty fine bonus as far as Paul was concerned.

  In the end, Paul was skillful and his rats were cruel, and Rebecca crawled away from him, her intestines trailing behind her, a wide swath of blood, bile, and shit marking her passage towards the stairwell. Rebecca slowly died, fighting for every breath, wanting desperately to scream but couldn’t.

  Her daughter Sarah went on living above, unaware of Rebecca’s pain, suffering, and the violence taking place less than ten feet below her.

  ~~~~~~ *LP* ~~~~~~

  Sarah watched her mom shuffle off into the kitchen, wincing and wishing she wasn’t so bullheaded about using her inhaler. She looked like she could use a breathing treatment, but she knew better than to say a word, otherwise she’d end up getting lectured about minding her own damned business.

  Speaking of minding her own business, Sarah couldn’t believe her mother had both the nerve and the cleverness to figure out what Sarah had been up to with Ryan this afternoon. Based on what—a glimpse of Ryan walking home through the back fields? Wow. Just…just…wow. Moreover, her Mom was being totally cool about it. Maybe not the nitty gritty hot and steamy details, but the broad strokes, to make a small pun.

  Sarah had thought she was being sneaky and clever, and would have assumed her mother thought she was a chaste and virginal angel. Sarah had seriously underestimated both how smart and how chill her mother was. She felt very guilty on both accounts, but still, she was also still feeling somewhat giddy after spending the afternoon with Ryan. Love and infatuation could do funny things. As could a good old-fashioned roll in the hay, if you wanted to get down to brass tacks, she thought giddily.

  She glanced towards the stairwell, surprised her mother hadn’t come back upstairs already. She didn’t think she had time for a shower before dinner, but if her mom hadn’t started dinner yet, then she probably had just enough time for a quick shower.

  Sarah walked over to the top of the stairs, and opened the door. "I’m going to take a quick shower before dinner, mom. I’ll be quick."

  She saw the shadow move in response, so she figured everything was fine and didn’t wait for an answer. Sarah grabbed her laptop, books, and homework and headed upstairs.

  ~~~~~~ *LP* ~~~~~~

  Paul stood at the bottom of the basement stairs, standing over the body of the recently departed Rebecca Mason, and staring up after Sarah Mason, divided over what to do next. Part of him wanted the trophy of Rebecca’s head for the upcoming festivities, and part of him wanted the leverage that Sarah would bring over Ryan. Both would serve nicely. A classic case of wanting to have his cake and wanting to eat it too.

  No problemo. Further replication would be useful. It was distracting, and divided his attention still further, but was worth the stretch, he thought. Dark arts, indeed.

  Paul closed his eyes, and concentrated carefully. The incantations must be precise, and powerful. Slowly, he spoke in an unholy and demonic tongue, enunciating very carefully. Then he stepped forward, yet part of him remained standing still. The part that stepped forward became one copy, and the part that stayed behind was another. There was now two of him standing in the Mason’s basement. It was very neat and clean—not like an amoeba splitting, but more like film duplication, completely copied even down even to the knife in his right hand.

  The first Paul bent down and started sawing through Rebecca’s neck with the long knife blade. The knife immediately caught and made crunching noises as he sawed through her trachea.

  The second Paul glanced down at his own blade, shook his head with mild bemusement, and then walked quietly up the stairs, on a mission to go after Sarah.

  ~~~~~~ *LP* ~~~~~~

  Ryan, finished with arranging the shotgun as though it had never been disturbed, closed the closet door.

  "What the fuck do you think you’re doing?

  Ryan whirled around, nearly screaming in absolute terror.

  His sister Carla, two years younger, was standing by the counter, with her arms crossed and tapping her foot. She was clearly pissed.

  Ryan cleared his throat, annoyed with her. "Nothing."

  She was not mollified. "Well, you’re making a shit ton of racket doing ‘nothin
g’ and I’m trying to get my homework done."

  "Where are mom and dad? Dad’s truck’s not outside, and neither is mom’s car."

  She walked over to the fridge and opened it. "How the fuck should I know?"

  Ryan looked at the fridge. On the whiteboard was a note. "Ran to get pizza for dinner. Back in a bit. Love, Ma."

  "Well, mom ran into town to go get pizza."

  His sister leaned back to look around the fridge door and shot him a dirty look. "Well, then what the hell did you ask me for?"

  He pointed at the white board.

  She shrugged. "Oh."

  Ryan leaned up against the counter. "Well, it might take her a bit to get back. It’s foggy outside."

  Carla shut the fridge door. "It’s November. It doesn’t get foggy in November."

  Ryan stared at her as if she were a bug, and then pointed out the window. "Well, look outside, dumbass. What would you call that?"

  Carla didn’t even bother to look. "Whatever. As long as she brings back a pizza without mushrooms. Even if you pick them off, I can still taste it. It’s like eating friggin’ mold or something. If she got mushrooms, I’m going on a diet tonight."

  The lights went out in the kitchen.

  "Hey, that’s not funny. Turn the lights back on, asshole!"

  "I didn’t turn the lights off."

  He fumbled around beside himself, feeling around for the handle on the kitchen drawer. A thought suddenly occurred to him, in his defense. "Besides, the lights went out inside the fridge, too. Must be a power outage or something. So therefore I’m not an asshole."

  Ryan heard the fridge shut. "Oh. Well even if it has nothing to do with you, you’re still an asshole."

  The room lit up with Carla’s LED light on her phone. Ryan held his hand up to keep from being blinded. "Carlie, don’t shine that in my face. Besides, you’re going to run your phone dead in a hurry...Then you’re not going to be able to bitch to all your friends about the fog and the power outage. Lemme find a candle or flashlight or something." Ryan, now able to see, opened the kitchen junk door, rummaging.

  "What the fuck?" Carlie tossed her phone on the counter, disgusted.

  Ryan pulled out couple of tea candles and a pack of matches. "What now?"

  "No fucking service. Awesome. Might as well use the flashlight, for all that’s fucking worth."

  "Karma’s a bitch, Carlie."

  "Stop calling me Carlie, Bee-Ryan. Or how about Rain. What teacher called you Rain your freshman year again?"

  Ryan looked over. She was smiling sweetly. Ryan shook his head, and lit two candles. He flipped her the bird. "Knock it off, Carlie."

  She flipped her head around to swing her hair back with a look of disdain set on her face. "Quit calling me Carlie, then, Rain."

  Something hammered the back door again, rattling windows across the whole back of the house. Carla yipped in fear, bouncing away from the counter in fright. The low deep bull alligator like sound rumbled, and then were three heavy footfalls on the back porch. Carla and Ryan looked at each other, their eyes wide in fright, and there was heavy pounding on the back door, rattling both the windows and the dishes in the cupboard.

  Carla looked at Ryan, with sudden fear and understanding dawning in her eyes. Her voice was a low, hoarse whisper. "You were putting the shotgun away when I came downstairs. What do you know that I don’t?"

  "That’s just it—I don’t. There’s just some fucked up shit going on."

  The doorknob on the backdoor began to rattle.

  Ryan grabbed his sister’s hand and tried to bolt to the stairway upstairs. She forced him to stop, straining to grab her cell phone from the counter. Once she had it, she then raced him up the stairs, shrieking and sobbing the whole way.

  Ryan was right there with her, screaming just as loudly. It wasn’t his proudest moment.

  The back door gave way with a splintering crash, with the tinkle of glass blowing out as the door bounced off the back wall with the sheer violence.

  "Kids, you’d better get your fucking asses down here, front and center, and right the fuck now!" Paul bellowed.

  Ryan looked at Carla. They could hear a low and guttural growling sound from downstairs, and what sounded like claws on the tile floor. Both their eyes were wide with shock. "Fuck that," Ryan whispered. Ryan grabbed his sister’s hand. Hurriedly, they scrambled towards their parent’s bedroom.

  ~~~~~~ *LP* ~~~~~~

  Paul #2 stood in the Mason’s kitchen, looking around and listening carefully. He could hear footsteps above him, upstairs, but little else. He walked past the counter, into the dining room, and turned left into the foyer by the front door. Paul saw the stairway, but walked past the stairway that led upstairs to the bedrooms and into the open but dark archway that led into the living room beyond. It was dark and quiet. Paul wanted to make sure that there were no other people in the house.

  He was certain that Sarah was the only other person at home, besides the versions of himself and the corpse of her mother, but he didn’t want any surprises when he brought Sarah downstairs. He thought Sarah’s father would still be at the school, waiting to pick up her brother from practice. If her brother’s practice ended early, then the situation would get awkwardly complicated, although there’d be a nasty surprise when Paul #1 came sneaking up behind them all. The sheer shock and awe factor would be his ace up his sleeve, if necessary. The party favor of Rebecca’s head would just be the icing on the cake. Therefore, Paul #1 would remain in the basement until Sarah was safely secured, just in case.

  Satisfied that they were alone, Paul climbed the stairs steadily and quickly. The farmhouse was old, and the stairs were hardwood but in good repair. He could hear the sound above of the shower running already. He climbed at an even and confident pace, carefully putting his weight on the outside of the risers, trying to avoid making any noise, but the house was old, and every step creaked slightly with his weight. He wasn’t worried though. He was on top of his game at the moment, and he was feeling the groove. If Sarah heard the creak of the risers, she would assume it was her mother moving about the house. Sarah had no reason to suspect anything else. Paul had worked too hard and too long for there to be any other outcome, and so far, everything was turning up aces. Even flow, baby.

  He could hear Sarah humming a tune. He didn’t know the name of it, let alone have the foggiest of clues who sang it, but it was incredibly popular with the teenagers and had a catchy and memorable refrain. It echoed pleasantly in the tiled bathroom. Proof positive Sarah had no idea what rough beasts were coming for her.

  Paul reached the top of the stairs, and walked along the hallway, careful to keep the edge of the wall. He stopped at the bathroom door—the only closed door in the hallway—and it was where the sound of the shower and the humming was coming from.

  There was a keyhole in the door latch. Because it’s a bathroom. Moreover, teenage girls value their privacy like a crack whore values the next fucking fix.

  So what are the chances that it’s locked?

  Paul smiled. On any other day, any fucking day but today, it would abso-goddamned-lutely be locked up tighter than a brand-new convicted felon’s asshole on his first day in the clink. But when you’re in the zone, when the stars are aligned, when you’ve reached the one goddamned day you’ve toiled, sweated, and traded your whole life for, when you’re feeling the groove and you know, you just know that you’re going to roll snake eyes, why, that moment rarely comes when you just know you will beat the house odds. In the long run, the house always wins…unless you know, in that one singular and perfect moment, just exactly when to take the house for all it’s worth. If you know when that moment’s coming, you bet the farm. Paul was willing to bet the whole motherfucking farm and then some that the goddamned door was unlocked. Because a locked fucking door would be a major motherfucking hassle today. Because today was not the day to bet against Paul Vischer.

  Paul reached down, and delicately placed his fingers on the doorknob. It
felt like the doorknob was thrumming lightly under his fingertips. Cool, but alive and aware. Yes, he was feeling it. The Key was not wrong. It had worked out so well, once he had gotten a legitimate copy. There were so many fake copies out there. It was so tough to get a proper grimoire.

  He turned the knob, so carefully, and oh so gently. It moved, slowly at first. He just knew there would not be a sudden catch, a hitch, as the lock prevented him from opening the door. It wouldn’t be possible. The door would open. It just had to open.

  The trouble with the black arts are that so many people claimed to be practitioners, and claimed to have a proper copy of The Lesser Key of Solomon, but in reality, these people were just Snake oil salesmen hawking wares out of their modern versions of covered wagons to the unsuspecting, rather pathetically eager, and extremely gullible public. The Lesser Key of Solomon is one of the more famous grimoires, or Book of Spells.

  According to legend, King Solomon, of biblical fame, couldn’t begin proper construction on his famed temple, as he was being hassled and hounded by demons. After much prayer and consultation, God showed him how to harness the demons, trap them in various vessels, and put them to work to do his bidding. King Solomon wrote down the directions, and that forms the grimoire called The Lesser Key of Solomon. Now, for the first time, you too can harness the power of the Demons of Hell, for the low introductory price of $19.95 plus shipping and handling. And if you’re one of the first one hundred callers, we’ll throw in a bonus CD of Dark Spells, free. Just pay additional processing and handling. But wait, that’s not all. If you call in the next twenty minutes, we’ll also include a free bonus book of 100 dark incantations that are guaranteed to work…just pay additional processing and handling.

  The doorknob stopped turning. Paul pushed gently and firmly against the door, but the door wouldn’t budge. He frowned slightly, and tried twisting the doorknob further. It clearly wouldn’t turn further, and it was an old wrought iron doorknob, with a clear glass knob. The antiquers from the bigger cities would go absolutely bat shit over this doorknob, he thought. In addition, to think the Mason’s use it to get to the shitter. The door wouldn’t budge, though. There’s no fucking way this door is locked, he thought stupidly. He turned it slowly back to center, and decided to try the other direction.