by Kevin Lucia
Something whisked down the hall.
John stepped toward his office door. A mild chill rippled across his skin. He was certain he’d heard something.
Sudden inspiration struck him, and he chuckled aloud. Of course. It was probably the family cats—a calico named Pebbles and a tomcat named Peanut—batting something across the basement’s concrete floor. They were notorious for waking everyone at night with similar shenanigans. Most likely they were batting around a piece of cardboard or something.
In fact, an entire scenario formed. Beth had probably yelled down her plans to run an errand and he (as always these days) had called back “Sure, see you later!” without realizing it. He’d done it several times before, after all. Beth had probably sent one of the kids to turn the hall light off in addition to the stairwell light. This had happened to him on several occasions, too. They’d gone their merry way while he’d browsed through his voluminous book collection, lost in a bibliophile’s paradise.
It had to be the cats making the swishing sound along the floor in the hall outside his office. He’d go out there now, flick on the hall lights and herd them upstairs. Tossing the Magic Eight Ball hand to hand, John stepped toward the door leading to the hall . . . and stopped.
Something twitched in his gut.
A feeling. A strange, skin-crawling sensation. For whatever reason (though it was ridiculous), he didn’t want to enter the dark hallway beyond.
Why?
Having no logical basis for his fear, John figured he felt uneasy from abruptly realizing he was alone in the house. He returned his attention to the bookshelf at the rear of his office, the one he’d been browsing when he’d first heard the strange sounds outside, only being made by the cats, after all.
The top shelf held purely “literary works.” Poetry collections of Blake, Yeats, Robert Frost, and Shakespeare. Prose collections of Zora Neal Hurston, Hemingway, Nathaniel Hawthorne, Flannery O’Connor, and folktales collected by the Brothers Grimm. Novels, from The Man in the Iron Mask to Madame Bovary, to Villette and Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte, to A Passage to India by E. M. Forster.
The second shelf held old pulp novels from the thirties and forties. When he was fourteen years old his great grandmother, recognizing a hungry reader, started giving him one novel a month. They bore such outlandish titles as The House of Darkness, The Tree that Screamed, The Strangler Fig, The Devil’s Mansion, Crimson Ice, The Undying Monster and Heads, You Lose. He’d consumed those books one after the other, a new junkie mainlining his first fix. Grandma White promised him when she passed, he could have them all. Those books were older than any of the others in his office.
The bottom shelf (the one he’d been searching when he’d first heard the cats playing in the hall) held his collection of horror anthologies. The famed Whispers series, edited by Stuart David Schiff, featuring the varied works of Ramsey Campbell, Stephen King, Charles Grant and so many others. The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror from England. The Shivers series, published by Cemetery Dance. Masques, Borderlands, Shadows, Stalkers, Dark Forces, October Dreams I & II, Corpse Blossoms, Horror Library Volumes 1-5, and Prime Evil. Classic horror anthologies jammed next to paperback collections of slightly lesser repute with titles to match; Shock Rock, Walls of Fear, Tales by Midnight I & II, Hardshell, Post Mortem, Zombie Nation, Zippered Flesh and A Taste for Blood.
John stopped and frowned, noticing something odd. Among the horror anthologies was a black leather-bound book he’d never seen before. It was a strange size, looking more like a journal, jammed between Whispers 2 and his hardcover edition of Dark Forces.
He touched the book’s spine, fingers trailing down its pebbled surface. He was about to pull it out, had his finger hooked on the spine’s edge, but he figured it was probably a collector’s edition he’d bought at Arcane Delights, the used bookstore in town. That’s all.
Scanning the shelves unsuccessfully for something else interesting, John brushed off his knees and stood.
Something swished down the hall.
He wasn’t concerned, however, because he’d already identified it as the cats playing. He ignored the sound, dismissing the slight chill running along his skin. But as he stood, he noticed several things shifted around on top of his bookshelf. Die cast metal figurines of Marvel characters: Hulk, Wolverine, and Spiderman in particular. Which didn’t make sense. The kids weren’t allowed in here. Touching anything on his shelf was absolutely forbidden, because this was the accumulation of twenty years collecting odds and ends. He’d started it shortly after moving in, when Mom and Dad had sent him several boxes of his things they’d stored while he’d attended college. In one of the boxes, he’d found old action figures, a Slinky, some fuzzy dice, the Magic Eight Ball in his hands, and several of his old car models. Some of them intact, others missing wheels, hoods, or engines.
He’d unpacked the contents of the boxes onto the top of his shelf. Over the years, he’d added bits and pieces of whatever caught his fancy. In particular, a few old fashioned soda bottles (Pepsi and Mountain Dew) he’d found alongside the road. Also, the die cast Marvel figurines Marty had thrown away a few years ago when he’d declared them “baby toys” and “could he finally get an iPhone, please?” Last fall, John had come across a set of wax Halloween figurines—a grinning grim reaper, a ghost, a skeleton and a jack’o lantern—at Handy’s Pawn and Thrift. It was love at first sight.
From the looks of it, someone had been in his office messing around with the Marvel figurines. Scattered in a pile were Hulk, Wolverine, Spiderman and also, he saw now, Magneto. He frowned; holding his Magic Eight Ball close to his chest with one hand as he gently re-set the figurines with the other.
Who could’ve been down messing with his things? It had been years since either Marty or Melissa had tried to sneak in here.
Replacing Hulk to its original position against a dark green Mountain Dew bottle from the seventies, John hefted the Magic Eight Ball, wondering if either of the cats was to blame. Not Pebbles, he supposed. She was too big and old to be jumping from the floor to the shelf. Peanut, however, was still young and also small, more than capable of not only launching herself up to the shelf but small enough to walk along its edge while causing only minimal disorder.
Another oddity: Usually he shut not only the basement door at night but also his office door, to keep the cats out. Perhaps he’d been preoccupied last night and had forgotten to close them? Unlikely but it was certainly possible, seeing as how he was the only one in the house so concerned about shutting both doors at night. If he’d forgotten, it was more than likely the others hadn’t worried about it at all.
Speaking of the cats, they were really going at it out in the hall. He should herd them upstairs, but again, for some reason he couldn’t put his finger on, he didn’t want to leave his office right then.
On a whim, John shook the Eight Ball. “So. Were my cats responsible for this mess?”
Out of the murk, the faded letters on the polyhedron read: Ask Again Later.
John chuckled, but as he examined the arrangement of figurines on his shelf, realization struck him. One of them was missing. He gazed at the little superhero tableau until it came to him. Cyclops. The X-man with laser eyes. He’d been there with the others. Now, John noticed, he wasn’t.
He thought for a moment, working the eight ball in his hands. A creeping unease tickled the back of his neck. Who’s been messing around in here? He dismissed the question, realizing Peanut had probably knocked Cyclops onto the floor, where she’d then batted him under the shelf.
To dispel the faint unease over his shelf’s mysterious disorder, John shook the eight ball again. “Did Peanut knock Cyclops under the shelf?”
The polyhedron slowed its spinning. Faded letters resolved into: Answer Is Unclear. John grunted. “Figures.”
Regardless, he didn’t want to root under the shelf for Cyclops at the moment, the way his knees were getting these days . . .
knees?
my knees are fine
The familiar itch of wanting to read something flared again. It pleased him, but also struck him as a little odd. Normally, he wasn’t so indecisive. He turned to scan the old, pressed-wood shelf to his right, the kind found at K-Mart or Wal-Mart and not requiring any real skill to assemble.
He unconsciously rolled the eight ball in his hands as he scanned the shelves. These books offered a trip down memory lane. His teenage collection of Star Wars novels. At one time he could’ve made the proud declaration he owned every one. Even the hard-to-find Han Solo novels from the late seventies. He’d stopped collecting them halfway through college, though. Now he owned only a fraction of the franchise’s backlist.
He wasn’t sure he wanted to read one of these. He mostly enjoyed their nostalgia. He’d arranged his old Star Wars action figures on the shelves, along with several commemorative Empire Strikes Back soda glasses his parents bought when he was a kid. A final touch was a plastic but realistic lightsaber hilt Marty had discarded when he’d declared himself “too old for space stuff.”
This shelf was a time portal. It transported John to an era before his children had grown away from him. A time when Beth had shown him more than the dutiful obligation she offered now, as she filled her days following Rachael Ray’s advice for weight loss or trendy but affordable home interior ideas, found on some website called Pinterest. She was always “pinning” things (whatever that meant). Recipes, sewing patterns, and hairstyles. Even when she was in the car with him, alone, she focused on her iPhone, listening to him with only half an ear.
John frowned at what appeared to be a black leather-bound book, similar to the one he’d seen on his horror anthologies shelf, between Heir to the Empire and Dark Force Rising. He couldn’t fathom why it’d be here or why it looked so similar to the other one.
He reached out to touch it but figured it must be some sort of Star Wars novelty book he’d recently purchased and forgotten about, which happened often. He’d buy books either at rummage sales, used bookstores, or online, shelve them, then forget about them. It wouldn’t be the first time.
Working the eight ball in his hands, he dismissed the strange black leather-bound book and re-focused on the reading itch he couldn’t seem to scratch.
As he kicked something across the floor.
John glanced down, puzzled, and saw something which only confused him further. The animatronic tarantula (about the size of his hand) which usually sat on his Ramsey Campbell shelf. But there the toy spider was, on the floor a few inches from his foot, obviously what he’d kicked.
John stood still.
Staring at the tarantula sitting in the middle of his office floor, as something whisked along the concrete in the hall outside his office. For one surreal moment, the tarantula appeared real. Poised to scuttle under his desk or turn and attack his foot, which was why Melissa hadn’t wanted it, of course, despite badgering him for weeks to buy one after seeing an ad for it on Animal Planet. Remote controlled, life-like except for its larger-than-actual-scale, it was all Melissa had talked about for weeks until John broke down and finally bought it from the Toys R’ Us over in Utica.
He’d had his doubts from the moment he saw it at the store (he’d thought it neat himself), but at the time he was happy he’d found something his mercurial, ever-more-complex preteen daughter wanted, something he could actually provide.
Which was why (though he’d suspected her reaction from the start), he felt let-down (disappointed as hell) at her immediate rejection the instant he’d removed it from the box. Her eyes had widened (at first he’d hoped in excitement); her mouth had worked silently until she finally whispered, “Ew. Get it away from me. It’s gross!”
He’d done his best to swallow his disappointment and what remained of his pride, hoping maybe Marty would show some interest. It had been a remote control animatronic tarantula, for God’s sake, and it obviously frightened his little sister. As a kid, John would’ve begged for such a treasure. Marty, however, had barely spared a glance from whatever game he was playing on his iPhone, muttering with barely concealed scorn, “Whatever. Thing’s totally fake. Lame, Dad.”
He’d liked it, however, so into his office it went to stand guard over his Ramsey Campbell novels, which seemed appropriate. There it had sat for the past four years.
Until now.
He juggled the eight ball, happy for something to keep his hands busy as he stared at the toy tarantula sitting on the floor. He couldn’t explain how it had gotten there. It hadn’t been there when he’d come in earlier this . . .
Morning?
Afternoon?
He caught the eight ball in his right hand and held it there, considering. It was odd. He’d certainly lost track of time in his office before. Hours of reading had passed him by, leaving him fuzzy as to the time, especially since he’d retired.
Retired.
He frowned. He wasn’t retired. He had ten or fifteen years left before he could even consider it, which all depended on whether or not Melissa would settle for a few affordable years at Webb Community or if she’d insist on something more prestigious and, more importantly, far more expensive.
But he wasn’t retired yet.
was he?
No, he wasn’t retired. His mind had just slipped, thinking about how much time he’d probably spend down here when he did retire, when the kids weren’t around. Not that he saw much of them these days, anyway.
He chuckled and shook the eight ball. “Getting daffy before my time, thinking of retirement and all. That it? Am I losing it?”
Out of the milky fluid, the words read: Future Is Hazy.
For some reason, the eight ball’s continued ambiguity troubled him, which was stupid, of course. The eight ball was a toy, nothing more. It wasn’t purposefully offering him vague answers.
He tossed the eight ball into the air, caught it and was glancing back to the floor when Beth peered around the corner and into his office, face blank. John straightened in surprise, having not heard her steps in the hall . . .
only that whisking sound
. . . and was about to ask her if she needed anything, but before he could speak, she reached in and flicked the office light off. Plunged into darkness, he didn’t see her leave but heard her footsteps this time, which sounded quick and agitated as they sped down the hall, away from his office, and up the stairs.
“Beth! What the hell?”
A shrill kind of panic filled his chest. He crossed the floor as quickly as he could in the darkness. He slapped at the wall, searching for the light switch. Rationally he knew it was silly to fear the dark. It couldn’t hurt him, right? But his heart was throbbing triple time as he groped for the switch, his panic escalating with the irrational belief he was dissolving into the dark, and soon there’d be nothing left.
He found the switch and flipped on the light, banishing the darkness and instantly easing his throbbing heart. He took a deep breath and massaged his chest with one hand (it felt heavy, the pain spreading to his left shoulder, which scared him in a completely different way), squeezing the eight ball tightly with the other.
What the hell was Beth doing? Shutting the lights off without a word? John wondered if maybe he’d done something to anger her, but Beth addressed her complaints head on. She didn’t play passive-aggressive games. Besides, he’d thought the house was empty, her gone for the day.
His mind swirling, he glanced to the floor, searching for the animatronic tarantula.
It wasn’t there.
John stared at the floor. The toy spider had been there a moment ago. He’d kicked it and then wondered how it had gotten there. Then for some inexplicable reason Beth had reached into his office and flicked the lights off. After he turned them back on . . .
The toy spider was gone.
John glanced at the bookshelf standing next to the writing desk he never used. There the toy spider was, where it was supposed to be, but facing the wrong direction.
Also, like his knick-knack shelf, his books were in disarray. Several had been knocked over.
John’s throat tightened.
His chest felt heavy again as an icy dread washed over him. It became hard to breathe, as an aching pain radiated out into his left shoulder. All the hours he’d spent in his office over these years, he knew every nook and cranny, fastidiously dusting and organizing his books and making sure everything was just so.
“Who’s been in here? And . . . how? When?”
Maybe it had been the grandchildren. Marty’s kids were okay. He and Marty had never enjoyed a close relationship but at least he kept his kids in check, unlike Melissa. Her brats ran wild all over the place. They were always getting where they didn’t belong. It figured, with the way she let them do whatever they wanted in compensation for ditching her husband. He remembered the time he’d come in here and her little brat Dillon had been pushing the animatronic tarantula along the floor making vroom sounds.
A spike of real fear lanced his heart.
He gripped the eight ball hard enough to hear its plastic shell creak. “Who’s Dillon? What grandchildren? What the hell is happening?”
Instinctively, he glanced down at the eight ball. Floating letters spelled out: Ask Again Later.
There were those damn cats again, whisking down the hall, though instead of sounding like Fluffy and Princess knocking around pieces of cardboard on the cold concrete floor . . .
no, it’s Peanut and Pebbles
. . . it sounded more like the hem of a dress or a robe dragging across the floor outside the door to his office, where it was still so dark.
John rested a slightly shaking hand on his aching chest and rubbed in slow circles. He was ill. Confused. Was he having a stroke? A heart attack? He was far too young, at age 45 . . .
60?
. . . but he’d heard stories, of course. Of healthy men dropping dead from heart attacks in middle age. He had to admit he’d been feeling more stress than usual these days. Melissa had turned from his darling little tom-girl who loved to play with garter snakes into a high school senior with the painted-on face and clothes of those barely dressed girls in all the rap videos she watched.