Closet Treats

by Paul E. Cooley

  Trey deleted the message and tried her phone. Got her voicemail. Then he called home. Same. She wasn't answering her mobile and no one was answering the home phone. He'd heaved a heavy sigh and walked down to the nearest bus stop that would take him near the neighborhood.

  It was a long walk from the neighborhood's mouth to the house. As he made his way down the concrete path and wound through the trees, all he'd thought about was Dick.

  Dick had listed him as the closest family and Trey had had to sign dozens of forms, including approval for the autopsy. They would take him to the morgue, perform an autopsy, and figure out what happened. The doctor asked Trey for a better description of what had occurred in the warehouse, but Trey refused to say anything. Instead, he'd stepped out into the cold and made his way home.

  Even in the dark, he recognized the well-worn path leading from the concrete sidewalk to his backyard fence. Surrounded by the forest, many of the residents had installed back gates allowing them access to the main sidewalk via their backyards. Trey's house was no different. He often enjoyed walking through the trails and ending up at his own back gate. It also gave him a chance to wash off his shoes on the deck to remove any mud and dirt.

  Trey reached the back gate and frowned. It was partially open. He wondered if Alan had entered and neglected to fully close the door. Trey mentally shrugged and stepped through, closing the door and latching it behind him. As he turned toward the house, he frowned again. The first floor was dark, not a single light on. He scanned the upper floor. Alan's room was the only light he could see.

  Trey's stomach crawled. Something didn't feel right.

  He walked up on the deck as quietly as he could, peeking through the first floor windows. The gloom was complete. He wasn't going to be able to see anything. Taking a deep breath, Trey walked to the sunroom screen door. He opened it as slowly as he could, praying the hinges wouldn't make any noise. The slight creak as the door opened set his nerves on edge. He closed it with care, making sure the latch didn't make its customary loud click.

  When he turned toward the glass door, the crawling in his stomach became an anvil instead. Even in the darkness, the glass looked cracked. He walked to the door, feeling around. The metal edge was caved inward toward the glass, as though it had been pried.

  The world suddenly seemed silent. The wind swishing through the skeletal oaks, the brushing of pine branches, all of it was silent save for the hammer of his heart in his ears. With a shaking hand, he reached out and slid the glass door aside.

  The interior enveloped him as he stepped in. Trey let his eyes adjust. It was dark outside, but the house was positively pitch black. With the exception of the green display of the microwave and the kitchen clock radio, there was no light to be had. Trey pulled out his phone, touched the screen and used its light to find his way to the island. He stepped carefully, making sure he wouldn't stumble over any hidden obstacles. If someone was still in the house, he didn't want them knowing he was there. Not yet.

  Once he was at the island, he waved the phone's dim light over the butcher block. He pulled on the handle in the center and the silver, serrated cleaver slid from the slot. He placed the phone back in his pocket and switched the knife to his left hand. It didn't make him feel any safer or stop the thrashing beat of his heart. Trey turned. The phone on the wall blinked red at him. There was a message on it, most likely the one he'd left.

  He stepped toward it and heard something upstairs. A soft thump. Trey reached his right hand to the cordless receiver and pulled it from its charger. The keys lit up in white, the light blanketing his face. He pressed the button for emergency, then held the receiver as close to his ear as possible.

  "9-1-1 emergency."

  "There's an intruder in my house," Trey whispered into the phone.

  "Sir, are you in the house?" the female voice asked.

  Trey took in a breath to answer and then stopped. Another thump from the second floor, followed by the sound of liquid pattering onto wood. A whimpering sound from upstairs. Alan's room was right above the kitchen.

  The beat in his chest grew faster, so loud he could barely think. "Just get here," he whispered and placed the phone on the counter.

  As he stepped out of the kitchen and into the living room, the metallic phone voice continued asking questions, but he ignored it.

  The living room was pitch black as well, save for the lights from the cable box. He stepped down into the sunken living room, making his way to the foyer.

  Drip. Drip. He couldn't see it, but he knew something dripped from the balcony and onto the wooden foyer floor. Trey's body shook with a fear induced adrenaline rush. Through the front door, a sliver of light from the streetlamp cast its glow. Something sat at the edge of the light.

  Trey bent down, his fingers touching something hard and wet. He felt its edges. Shoe. High heel. Trey took in a shuddering breath and placed the heel back on the floor.

  Another sound from above him. Trey looked up. A drop of something hit the back of his jacket with a patter. Trey stepped into the pooling liquid on the floor. Some part of him was afraid to turn on a light. Terrified. He reached for the light switch, his eyes trained on the balcony overlooking the doorway. Nothing moved up there. Nothing. He flipped the light switch. Nothing happened.

  He let out his breath as slowly as he could and swallowed. He looked from the balcony to the staircase. The edges of the lower steps were barely visible in the shadows. Too fucking dark, he thought. He moved with slow, cautious steps, wincing at the squeak of his runners on the liquid. With a shaking right hand, he flipped the switch for the staircase lights. Nothing happened. He took another deep breath. The whimpers grew louder. They were words, but he couldn't make them out.

  He wanted to yell Alan's name, Carolyn's name, anything to break the gloom, but held off. Whoever was up here had to have Alan trapped in his room, and he didn't know what they would do if the cops showed up. Or if he made any noise.

  Trey put his feet on the steps and slowly made his way up. The wood creaked under his weight and he winced again. He held the knife handle in his palm, the blade in front. He crouched low and turned the corner to proceed up the other side of the staircase. He was so low, knees bent, that the hallway was still out of sight. Each stair was torture as he tried to be quiet, so quiet. Final four steps. He made his way up the last few, still crouched on the balls of his feet.

  The hallway was shrouded in gloom. "Please help me," Alan's voice whimpered from the end of the hall. "Mommy--" Alan's voice turned into an exhausted sob.

  Rage replaced his fear; the adrenaline pumping through his system had his every nerve tingling. Something moved at the end of the hall. Trey froze, one foot slightly forward. "Come out, motherfucker," Trey said to the darkness.

  The dark form at the end of the hall seemed to grow, as though it had been crouching on its haunches. The narrow band of light from beneath Alan's door barely provided enough illumination, but Trey could see it.

  As the figure unfolded itself, it grew tall. A pair of eyes opened. Two ragged glowing yellow ovals in the darkness, cruel crimson embers burning in their centers. It took a step forward.

  Trey gritted his teeth. "Get away from my boy," he hissed. The sobbing from Alan's room stopped, as though he were suddenly listening. Trey barely noticed.

  The figure took another step forward. "You," it hissed back at him. "You took away my home," it spat in a low growl.

  Trey fought the urge to flee down the stairs as it moved another step closer. Mindful his back was against the stairs, Trey took a step toward it. The thing in the hallway paused. "Took my food," it said. "I can't go back there." The thing was holding something toward him. Trey struggled to see what it was in the darkness. "My home!" it screamed at him.

  "Get away from my son!" Trey yelled back at it.

  "So," the shadow said in a calm, low voice, "I'm taking everything that's yours." The light in the hallway flicked on. He clenched his eyes against the sudden bright wash
of light.

  Something rolled across the floor in front of him. Trey looked down. His wife's face stared up at him from the carpet. Her left eye dangled by a gossamer thread of flesh, blood still curling out from the empty socket. Her mouth was frozen in a scream, crimson lines snaking out from broken lips. A ragged chunk of flesh was missing from the side of her cheek.

  Trey tried to scream but nothing came out of his mouth. The world wavered, the face shimmering before him. Trey felt himself losing his balance.

  "Everything," the voice growled from the end of the hallway.

  Trey fell backward, his eyes still locked on the blood crusted hunk of meat that used to be his wife. Body parts were scattered throughout the hallway. Her naked torso sat at the end of the hall, huge chunks of flesh missing from the savaged corpse.

  Trey tried to scream again. A shadow crept over him and he slowly looked up.

  The fiend. The thing. The Ice Cream Man. The angled head, the drooling, blood-crusted canines, a forked tongue hanging from one side. It held a hand before him, the long taloned nails inches away from his eyes. Its own eyes flared and glowed even in the hallway's harsh light. It glared at him. "I. Take. Everything."

  Rolling down the stairs. The steps digging into his back. He screamed from the sudden searing pain in his face and chest. He rolled to the bottom, his head smashing onto the floor, facing upward at the balcony. His left eye was blind, his face a single, sizzling nerve. The thing looked down at him from the balcony and said something in a greasy string of syllables. It cocked its head to one side and then growled at him. With a sneer, it walked back down the hallway.

  Trey could hear it too: sirens. They were coming. They were coming and would be there soon.

  Thump. Thump. The sound of strong fists smashing into wood echoed from the balcony. Alan screamed.

  Trey rolled on his side and felt something tear away from his face. His entire body was stiff. He tried to move his right arm, but it refused to do anything more than scream back at him. He managed to get to his knees and stared at the stairs. Another scream. There was the sound of splintering wood. Trey raised himself, shrieking from the pain.

  Stumbling step by step, bones grinding in his limp right arm with every jarring movement, he turned the far corner. The cleaver sat on the second to top step. He bent at the waist, trying to ignore the searing pain in every muscle. He raised himself again, grinding his teeth to keep the shriek in his throat.

  The thing was clawing at Alan's door, its long nails shredding the wood. It had already made a ragged hole. Trey shambled toward it in a drunken stumble. It stuck its head into the hole, growling something at Alan.

  Alan's shriek of fear drove the pain away from his mind. Trey raised the knife and plunged it as hard as he could into the thing's back. Wood shattered as the thing jumped upward.

  The noise it made shook the house, an inhuman cry that rang in Trey's ears. He tried to pull the knife back out, but it wouldn't let go. The thing jerked backwards, its head shredding the remaining wood and fell back atop him. Something snapped in his chest and he couldn't breathe. The heavy, leathery body crushed down on him. His mouth filled with the copper taste of blood.

  The thing rolled off him and hit the wall. Trey tried to sit up, but the excruciating pain in his ribs kept him prone. He turned his head and stared at the thing next to him. Black blood poured from beneath its back. The monster, its cream colored clothes covered in streaks of wet crimson and dark fluid, slowly rolled to its side. As it dug its talons into the wall for purchase, plaster dust and paint chips exploded into the air.

  Trey coughed, his chest screaming with the pain.

  It groaned and lifted itself further up the wall, its talons finally catching on a stud. Wheezing, chuffing breaths rattled from its chest. Its right hand struggled to free the knife, now buried to the hilt, in its back.

  "Fucked you," Trey whispered. "Fucked you good."

  The thing turned toward him as it managed to stand. Its eyes burned red, the yellow reduced to simple rings. It growled and took a step toward him. The sirens outside stopped. Trey heard the sound of voices at the front door. The thing glared down at him, heaving in pain.

  Trey smiled at it. It roared and shuffled past him into the master bedroom. The front door opened with a bang just as the bedroom's picture window shattered. An inhuman howl filled the air as the cops climbed the stairs.

  Trey closed his remaining eye, Alan's screams still ringing in his ears.

  Chapter 63

  The bench of seats was empty except for Alan and the deputy sheriff. Alan took a sip from the water bottle one of the nurses had given him. He didn't want it, but she'd told him to keep drinking it. He readjusted the blanket. He still felt cold. The same nurse that had given him the water had said something to him about shock, but he barely remembered the words. Everything was numb.

  The Sheriff had stepped through bloody plaster and wood to get him out of the room. By the time they reached him, his voice had departed, leaving his throat raw and every breath was an experience in pain. One of the men dressed in the blue uniforms had tried to cover his eyes as they brought him downstairs, whispers of air still trying to make sound past his tortured and ripped vocal chords. But he had seen.

  Alan took another sip and shivered. Deputy Sheriff Wallace turned to look at him, his dark mustache jumping at the ends in a soft smile. "You okay, son?"

  It took every ounce of effort to nod. His neck hurt. His chest felt as though a huge weight had been placed atop it for hours on end. But the drain, the exhaustion, had left him feeling dull and dazed. He took a shuddering breath and let loose a silent sob. He couldn't even make that noise anymore.

  Daddy. He'd seen Daddy lying on the hallway floor, blood covering his face. Two men in white hovered over him, one whispering in his ear while the other pulled a syringe from a black bag. A red hole where Daddy's right eye used to be seeped blood down his face, joining the red rivulets streaming from his nose. Daddy's left eye had seen him, though. Daddy's left eye had blinked at him and the corners of his mouth had twitched.

  "Daddy," Alan tried to whisper, but the words came out as hiss of air.

  "Son?" Wallace asked.

  Alan turned toward him, but looked past him. The man didn't seem to be real. The nearly empty lobby, the muted words over the intercom, the occasional nurse passing by in the hallway, none of it was real. He was back in his room while the thing outside smashed its way in, its fangs drooling blood onto the white door.

  "Alan?" Wallace's voice reached through the memory and Alan jumped with a start. He focused on the man in front of him. "You gotta stay awake, buddy." The Sheriff raised himself from the bench, and moved two places over. He lowered his bulk into the seat next to Alan's. "Okay?"

  "Can't sleep," Alan tried to say. His voice came out in a small, dusty croak.

  "Right," the deputy said. The man leaned in toward him. "You cold, kid?"

  The blanket was doing little to warm him. Alan nodded. The deputy smiled at him. "I'll get you another blanket," he said. He shook his finger at Alan. "You stay here, kid. Okay?" Alan said nothing, only nodded. Wallace sat up and left the small lobby and walked toward the nurses' station just outside.

  Alan watched him go. People wandered by the opening, some staring inside to see just a lone little boy with a lost expression on his face. Alan didn't meet their eyes. He couldn't. The white hallway wall was his door. His door that crumbled against the thing's battering fists.

  "Kid?" A large meaty hand snapped its fingers beneath his nose. "Hey, kid, wake up!" Wallace's voice growled. Alan looked up into the man's pale face. The deputy's eyes were frantic. Alan blinked at him. "Alan?"

  He was in a bed. The room's lights were low. A woman in red scrubs stood next to the bed. She held his hand, her index finger tapping against the V between his thumb and forefinger. He blinked at her. "Alan? You back?"

  "How--" Alan tried to say, but nothing came out. He coughed, his throat screaming with the pain.<
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  "Shhh, honey," the nurse said. She was shorter than Mommy, her red hair tied up in a bun. She smiled at him. "Do you know where you are?"

  Alan shook his head, and then nodded.

  "Are you at home?"

  Alan shook his head and felt a tear squeeze from his eye.

  The smile on her face dimmed. "Are you in the hospital?"

  Alan blinked at her and then nodded.

  "Yes," she said, trying to recapture her smile. "Good. I'm going to get the doctor," she whispered. "Stay with me, okay?" Alan squeezed her hand twice. "I'll be right back."

  She turned from him and walked out of the room. Alan's eyes hurt. They felt as though someone had filled them with dirt. He rubbed at them. He scrunched his eyes closed and then opened them.

  Sheriff Wallace appeared in the doorway. The man sighed with relief and waved to Alan. Alan didn't return the gesture.

  The doorway cleared again. Daddy's ruined face. The empty eye socket streaming blood, his broken and crunched nose, the awkward angle of his previously unbroken arm, the deep slashes through his clothes all up and down his chest...

  A light shined in his eyes. "Alan?"

  Alan blinked.

  "Okay, good," a voice said. The penlight moved away from him. His eyes struggled to readjust from the bright light. A man older than Daddy hunched over his bed, salt and pepper hair shining beneath the bright fluorescents. "I'm Doctor Moody," the man said. He placed the penlight back in the front pocket of his white lab-coat. "Do you know where you are?"

  "Yes," Alan said. His voice had finally returned a little, but his throat still burned with the effort. "I'm at the hospital."

  "Excellent," the man said in a squeaky voice.

  "Where's my Daddy?" Alan asked.

  The man's smile faltered. He lowered his eyes for a moment, cleared his throat and then returned Alan's stare. "Your father is in surgery, Alan." He cleared his throat again. The gentle smile on his face had faded into a flat line. "Your father needs you to help him."