Awaken: A Horror Short Story

by Zach Bohannon

  “Zach comes out with suspense that will haunt you, and you won’t be able to look away.”

  J. Thorn, Amazon Top 100 Horror Author

  “Few horror writers work as hard as Zach Bohannon. Turn the lights low, and don’t let the blood splatter hit you.”

  Dan Padavona, author of Storberry

  “Zach Bohannon takes dark thriller and suspense to a terrifying new level, with spine tingling tales of the macabre that will keep you turning the page deep into the night.”

  David J. Delaney, Author of The Vanishing

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  Awaken

  by Zach Bohannon

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  AWAKEN

  Zach Bohannon

  Copyright © 2015 by Zach Bohannon. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, businesses, events or locales is purely coincidental. Reproduction of this publication in whole or in part without express written consent is strictly prohibited.

  Edited by Jennifer Collins

  Cover design by K.R. Griffiths

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  www.zachbohannon.com

  I awaken, shrouded in darkness. My first instinct is to feel around, and I run my hands along the concrete slab I’m lying on. It’s so cold. Not so different than when I lay in the middle of the road after the accident; the one I awake from every morning thinking of.

  I stand, with no recollection of how I got here. The air around me carries a chill. This confuses me. I don’t remember much, but I do remember that Autumn still held the hand of Summer when I was last awake.

  And where exactly is ‘here’?

  Reaching my hands out in front of me, I try to find a wall or a door —anything. As I wave my hands through nothing but air, the vulnerability makes me uneasy. For all I know, I could be moving toward a cliff, and step to my inevitable death at any moment. Aware of this, I stop. The cold air coats my throat as I draw in breath after breath. I bring my hands together and clap. The sound reverberates, and I realize I’m in an enclosed space.

  "Hello?" I call out, and my voice echoes. It's as if I'm standing in the middle of a sanctuary where the congregation has yet to gather.

  I reach into my pocket and bring my hand out, grasping what I was looking for. The small matchbook rests in my palm, and I use my other hand to open it and withdraw a single stick. I push the head against the sandpaper side of the small box and strike the match, lighting it on the first try. I pull the match up in front of my face and am given little light, though perhaps it’s enough to figure out where I am.

  Every couple of feet, I see what appear to be handles in the shapes of torches fastened to the wall. Between each one of these handles, text is etched into the concrete. I step closer to read it, but the match goes out. I sigh, then strike another match and move closer to the wall. I squint my tired eyes and read:

  Harrison Seymour Downs

  April 21st, 1878 - June 13th, 1917

  Father. Husband. Son.

  I’m in a mausoleum. What the hell am I doing in a mausoleum?

  Someone, or something, screams outside just as my second match reaches the end of its kindling. I turn around, following the direction of the howl. My hand is shaking, but I manage to withdraw another match. It drops from my hand, and it’s so quiet in here that I hear the small wooden stick bounce off the ground at my feet.

  “Calm down, Andy,” I tell myself, whispering.

  I grab another and, even though my hand won’t stop trembling, it lights. I place the small flame in front of my eyes, and turn until I see a door. I find it, but a disturbing thought comes into my mind as I see the other dates carved into the walls around me: I’ve been sleeping among the dead. Something about it makes me uncomfortable, and it sends a chill up my spine. I find a way to put the thought aside, and try to open the door before I lose my light again.

  I reach out my hand and place my palm on the surface of the cold, concrete door. Just before the match goes out, I find the handle. My first instinct is to push, but the door doesn’t budge. Am I going to be trapped in here, left to become one with the deceased surrounding me? I shake off my fear, and try pulling the handle. The door is heavy, but it moves. With a groan, I use all my strength to pull on the door.

  It opens.

  The wind whistles and the chill of the nightfall pierces my skin. I’m reluctant to stand outside, curious if the dead will protect me from the creatures of the night. I smile, nervously, and shake my head.

  “It was just a coyote I heard,” I tell myself. “No big deal.”

  I push the door further ajar, and step out under the moon.

  Tombstones line the land in front of me, standing in what seem like endless rows. The moon shines down upon them, peeking through the trees that stand at the edge of the yard. The stone dedications appear old, but the grass is well-kept. The last time I was in a graveyard was when I buried Jules and little Robbie. I don’t want to be here.

  I take the two steps down off of the mausoleum and begin looking around for the nearest exit. I just want to get home. My daughter is there. And she must be scared, wondering where Daddy is. I have to leave this place of decay and get to her.

  That scream, it happens again. And now that I’m outside, I can hear that it’s not so far away. I can also hear that it is, indeed, no coyote. It’s something else. It is, perhaps, human.

  I’m thankful that my legs seem to be full of strength, and I start through the yard with haste. I pass tombstone after tombstone and aged angel statues, searching for a way out. Trying desperately to get home to Emma. The child lost her mother at such a young age, and she could be home right now, scouring the house for her misplaced father. I’ll hug her until the sun comes up when I get home. I may, in fact, never let go.

  Through a break in the brush that lines the edge of the cemetery, I see a streetlight. I move faster, feeling as if I’m in a race against time to get back home and make sure that Emma is okay.

  I come to a rod iron fence and wrap my hands around two of its posts. I look both ways down the structure, unable to find a gate or an opening. So I climb.

  In mere seconds, I scale the eight-foot fence and land on the sidewalk.

  Something growls nearby.

  I freeze. My arms are down at my sides and I can’t seem to move them. The growl turns to a hiss, sounding like a large, angry dog. I slowly turn around to face the source of the sound.

  My eyes widen.

  Twenty paces or so down the sidewalk, kneeling down between two of the light posts, there is a figure. A human-shaped figure. From the crew-cut hairstyle, I can identify him as a male. I want to guess how old he might be, but my eyes go straight to his mouth, which is covered in thick blood. I gaze up to his eyes, which are pale, matching his milky-white skin.

  He tilts his head to the side, and that’s when I finally notice the sprawling legs on the sidewalk beside him. A hand quivers, almost as if it’s trying to signal me.

  The kneeling man hisses, and I notice under the light that he is no man at all, but a creature.

  The body lying on the concrete raises its head, and I see the face of a young man. A chunk appears to have been taken out of his throat. He looks to me with empty eyes and mouths two words: ‘Help me’.

  The cr
eature focuses back to its prey, and mounts the man’s neck. I hear the tearing of muscle and tissue above a hollowed out cry. The thing puts both its arms out and looks up to the sky, then spits out a large patch of flesh. The body underneath ceases to move, and the creature lets out a scream that sounds like that of a large bird from a B-horror movie.

  I turn, and I run like hell.

  I don't look back; I just run.

  I come to an intersection, and I veer right to head down a different street. Looking around, I finally realize where I am. The diner, the laundry mat, Sam’s Barber Shop, and that boutique women’s clothing store... I’m on Main Street. Home is only about a mile away.

  My legs stop when I hear a sound.

  Crunch.

  Crunch.

  Following the noise, I turn my head toward Maggie’s Diner. Like every other building on Main Street, its lights are off. But the noise sounds as if it is coming from behind the building, so I carefully make my way across the street and step onto the sidewalk. The closer I get, the more defined the noise becomes.

  Crunch.

  Crunch.

  I head around the side of the building, and as I make my way toward the back, I see the shadow of a figure on a large wall. I follow its shape to the origin, and my eyes come across another creature. It stands in front of a dumpster, leaned in toward something. I remain still as my heart punches the inside of my chest.

  My eyes widen.

  A person — a woman, I believe — is pinned to the dumpster by the creature’s hand wrapped around her throat. I look into her eyes. They’re crimson red, blood spewing from each side of her neck where the monster’s head is buried. Her mouth moves, but no sound comes out. She looks as if she wants to scream, but her voice is apparently gone.

  The grotesque sounds cease as the beast pulls back from the woman. It growls, then it slowly turns to look back at me. Like the one I saw on the sidewalk, its eyes are so pale, its skin a stark grey. The thing hisses at me, flashing its teeth, and though its face is covered in blood, I can see the protruding fangs inside.

  The woman cannot be helped. But, Emma...

  I turn and, again, I’m running.

  I don’t look back, and I hear another howl in the distance. There’s no other choice but to ignore it and just keep running; I have to get to my only living child.

  The entrance to my subdivision is only about another mile away, and I keep churning my legs. Adrenaline must be pumping through me, because I’m by no means tired. I feel like I could run for the rest of the night if I had to. And I’m starting to realize that it’s very possible that I might have to do just that.

  I reach my neighborhood without coming across another creature. In fact, I haven’t even come across another human. I know it’s late, but you’d think that someone would be outside. What in the hell is going on? And was that thing I saw back there what I thought it was? No time...

  As I turn into my neighborhood, just when I thought I’d wander the night alone, a young woman bursts out of her front door and comes running out of her house. I don’t know her, but she’s screaming for me to help her. But, Emma. I can’t stop. So I don’t. That same grotesque howl rings in my ears, and a monster charges out of the house after the woman. It’s only a matter of time before she’s to be caught, so I don’t even turn around to see if she will make it.

  Crunch.

  A scream. The woman’s voice.

  Just keep going, Andy.

  Continuing down the sidewalk, I see something just a few paces in front of me. It’s visible under one of the streetlights, and I can see a mix of white fur and red-stained concrete. It’s a dog. A fucking dog. Jesus Christ.

  I can see my street now. The sign, slightly off-axis as always, reads ‘Acorn Court’. I take a hard right, and my house comes into view. It sits at the end of the cul-de-sac, an all-brick, two-story home — far too much space for just two of us, but just right when there were four of us. If anything has happened to Emma, I know that Jules will be looking down on me with nothing but disappointment. The same guilt will fill my bones from when I pulled out into that intersection, failing to see the drunk driver that side-swiped us.

  I seem to catch another gear, chugging my legs like a freight train.

  My Honda is still parked in the driveway — that’s good. I’ll be able to grab Emma and get the hell out of here.

  I arrive at the door and grab the handle. The door is locked.

  My keys. I reach into my pocket and scramble for my keys. I find nothing but lint and the matchbox. Whoever left me in that graveyard must’ve taken my keys.

  I bang on the door and yell, “Emma? Emma, honey, let me in!”

  No response.

  Since I can’t get inside through the front door, I decide to check the back.

  I jump off the porch and head around to the side of the house.

  “Emma!” I call out again.

  “Daddy,” she says from inside, finally responding. “Daddy, come in and help me!”

  I race around the back of the house, thankful that I haven’t yet built that privacy fence I’ve talked about. Our maple tree has lost most of its leaves, and the wind blows them around the yard in a frantic whirl.

  Another scream, perhaps from somewhere behind our house, draws my attention. In the open air, it’s so hard to tell. More creatures are close. No time.

  I refocus my attention on the house and notice that the back door is wide open.

  “Daddy!”

  I race inside.

  No lights are on, and I reach over to the nearest switch, hoping that the kitchen will come to life. No such luck, as I flip the switch multiple times to no avail.

  “Emma, honey, where are you?”

  “We’re upstairs,” she says.

  We?

  I dart through the dining room toward the staircase.

  The front door is open. Not ajar, but wide open, just like the back door was. Has someone else entered the house? My God.

  Grabbing onto the banister, I swing myself around and take the stairs two at a time until I reach the top. I head right toward Emma’s room, ignoring the family photos on the walls as I always do; these are the ones that Emma insisted on keeping up after the accident, not wanting to lose the memory of her little brother and her mother.

  Emma’s door is cracked, and I barrel through it with my shoulder, stopping just on the other side of the doorway when I see two familiar faces.

  “Bradley?”

  My neighbor, Bradley, is standing in front of Emma, shielding her, apparently in case something got into the house.

  I open my arms and take a step toward my sweet Emma, and say, “Sweetie, I’m so glad you’re okay.”

  Bradley draws a gun, and it clicks as he loads a bullet into the chamber.

  “Daddy,” Emma says, but Bradley is holding her back with his free hand.

  I raise my hands and chuckle. “Bradley, what the hell are you doing?”

  “Stay back, Andy,” Bradley says.

  “I appreciate you looking after my daughter,” I say. “But the joke’s over, put down the gun.”

  He fires a round, hitting the wall behind me. Emma screams.

  “Be quiet,” Bradley says. “You’ll draw the others.”

  “Others?” I say. My eyes widen. “Did you have something to do with me waking up inside a mausoleum?”

  Bradley’s hand trembles. “You just stay back, Andy. You hear? Stay away from us. She should have never invited you inside.”

  “You son of a bitch,” I say. “You had something to do with it.”

  Do it, Andy. Kill him. What is that? It’s a voice in my head that is not my own.

  “Daddy, I love you,” Emma says.

  Kill him.

  I take a step forward, looking around the room.

  “Stay back,” Bradley says. “I’m warning you!”

  “Who the hell is that talking to me?”

  The gun goes off.

  ***

  B
link.

  Blink.

  I awaken, once again, lying on yet another hard surface. The air hauls a cool breeze, and dawn appears as if it’s ready to break. This calms me, as if the night has been nothing but a horrid illusion. Those monsters, surely of the night, must be gone by now. I shake my head and try to sit up, but I can’t.

  “What the hell?”

  I look over and gasp.

  Not only are my wrists bound, but the palms of my hands have been pierced with nails, driven through the board which I am lying on. I raise my head and look down to my feet at much the same. My ankles are bound, and a thick, metal spike has been driven through both my feet. Just like the Lord, I’m being crucified. But why?

  “I didn’t know what else to do.”

  I look up to see Bradley standing behind me. He moves around to my side and my eyes follow him. Nerve endings in my hands and feet must be shot, because I don’t feel an ounce of pain.

  “What do you mean you ‘didn’t know what else to do’?” I ask. “Let me go.”

  Bradley sighs. “I can’t do that, Andy.”

  “Let me go, you son of a bitch!” I yell. “Where’s Emma?”

  “Emma is safe and sound,” he says. “You don’t worry about her. I’m going to take care of her. This is what’s best for you. I couldn’t bring myself to take you down in front of her.”

  “You sick bastard! You know all the shit she’s been through!”

  “Yes, I do, and I’m sorry.”

  I pull at my hands, trying to free my wrists. It’s futile, and all I hear is a wet sound — the nail moving up and down through skin and tissue as blood continues to seep onto the concrete. He’s leaving me here to die. To be devoured by those things.

  Bradley shakes his head, and I actually find compassion in his face. It’s not a look of hate, but one of guilt. He looks down at his watch, then he looks toward the horizon.