The House on Mayberry Road

by Troy McCombs

  The offer hurt the psychic. He wanted to cry, but couldn't. This was the worst sort of betrayal. He’d trusted this man, and almost looked at him as a new friend, not somebody who, in a way, belonged to D'kourikai. And this foe was nothing compared to It.

  "No! I will not let this go. You did something you have to pay for, Charlie!"

  Charlie looked down and chuckled.

  Swiftly, he stepped back, aimed his pistol at Rollings' forehead, face kindling with wrath. "I'm not paying for it. I did nothing wrong. The justice of the law is in the eye of the beholder. Are you going to stop me? Knock me down? Arrest me?"

  "No. You've done that to yourself."

  He laughed. "Oh, now you're using metaphors. What goes around comes around, right? You reap what you sow? Not this time."

  "Every time!" John raised his voice. "You aren't psychic. You haven't been where I have. You don't know what I do about what's on the other side of life. Murder is the worst action you can commit. No, God doesn't judge you for what you've done—"

  Charlie laughed again. "Oh, well thank you! Now I have nothing to worry about—"

  John finished, "Yes. You do. As soon as your body dies, your soul is free, depending on what you did when you were alive. Your soul is cleansed by God. You see things like he does. If you are ashamed enough, you can't forgive yourself. You trap yourself in your own hell. It can last for eons … a cold, lonely, demon-infested expanse of darkness. Everything you did to Mary you will do to yourself. You have all the time in the cosmos to analyze your negative thoughts, feelings and actions. They can even become physical. Thoughts you dwell on will dwell on you. They will consume your lost soul."

  Charlie looked worried, as if this was hitting home. Sweat accumulated on his face. He swallowed multiple times.

  To vanquish the possible truth, he countered: "No. That's wrong. There is no God, Rollings. No heaven, no hell. Just us. For the moment, me aiming a pistol at you and you totally defenseless."

  "If you were going to shoot me, you would have done it. I don't think you can."

  "Oh, I can. I'm just not allowed. The thing that lives upstairs would rip me to pieces if I did. However, he said I could inflict a little pain. Incapacitate you some."

  John gazed into Charlie's eyes. He peered behind them, beyond them. His psychic senses came to the forefront. He could see the immense sadness covering the surface of the Sheriff's soul, and the forsaken, loving human being hiding somewhere deep inside, below the pain, the fear, and the anger. Rollings could hear Steera's subconscious screaming for help.

  "You're not done yet, Charlie. It doesn't have to be over. There is no such thing as past the point of no return."

  "Oh, yes, there is. Don't try to save me. Don't try to psychologize me. There's nothing you can say I haven't said to myself before."

  "That proves it. You're remorseful."

  "Shut up!"

  "You feel bad about what you did to her. To you."

  The Sheriff's face turned beat-red. The hand with which he held the gun trembled nervously. He did not want to hear what John had to say. This information was too unfamiliar to him.

  "Give me the gun, man. You don't have to do this. You can get out before it's too late. This doesn't have to be the end. This can be the start of a new beginning."

  I can't have this, Charlie thought.

  He casually aimed the gun at John's chest, near his heart. The inevitable consequences never crossed his broken mind. He wanted to stop the truth from raveling. It was too distressing.

  His finger wrapped around the trigger. Began to pull. John closed his eyes and clenched his teeth. But there was no bang, no flash...only an immense crashing noise, accompanied by the sound of glass particles scattering across the floor. The nearby window had exploded, and another entity dropped into the room.

  Warf! Warf! Warf!

  Lucky?!

  Rollings opened his eyes and looked over and down. Sure enough, it was his Doberman. Lucky stood menacingly beside Charlie, growling angrily.

  A four-legged savior coming to save John's day. Again.

  By the time Steera swiveled around to aim his gun at the dog, it was already too late. Lucky did not go for the gun, or the leg, or the hand or arm; he went right for the kill. He leaped, knocked Charlie to the ground, and went gnawing for his throat. The gun fell. Saliva flew, dribbled. The man covered himself with his arms to protect against the gnashing, hungry canines, which were not only sharp but hard as rocks. They managed to break some of the small bones in his hands. Scratches formed. Blood followed.

  "John! Call him off! Call him off!" Steera sounded more afraid now than he had moments ago.

  John stood there, suddenly indifferent. For some reason, he could not say a word. He didn't feel like he was in his own body right now. None of his mechanical functions were working. All he was able to do was watch.

  "Call him oooooff!" His scream became more desperate-sounding. He could smell the dirty breath of the mutt as it bit at him. He could see the fury in its eyes, could feel the furry hair against his face. Lucky was not going away and was not going to veer from his attack.

  How do I get out of this?

  With that thought came a sheering dull pain in his wrist. Lucky had plunged his slimy teeth into it. Charlie felt his entire carpal bone shatter. He also felt a warm, tingling sensation in his forearm. A vein was severed and blood was filling it.

  His adrenaline picked up, which numbed some of the pain. But when Lucky pulled away, his arm went with him and the pain returned.

  "Ahhhh! Jesus Christ, help me! John, I'm sorry. I take it back. I'll do whatever it takes. Anything!"

  John took a step forward, then stopped, as if waiting for something. He had no idea what.

  Do not help him, an unfamiliar male voice beckoned from deep within his mind. Let this be.

  Lucky thrashed his head back and forth, along with Steera's bleeding arm. It was merely hanging by skin now, disconnected from tissue and muscle. It moved like cheap rubber.

  During the tussle, the top of the Sheriff's head cracked against something cool and hard and metallic. A weapon.

  My Glock!

  With his free hand, Steera reached for it, got it, aimed at the dog's squirming head and wrapped his finger around the trigger.

  Crunch!

  Before he pulled it, Lucky released his arm and went again for the throat. This time he got it and dug in deep, severing major arteries, muscle and tissue. The blood was immediate. It gushed from the wound, Steera's mouth, and even Steera's battered right arm. His eyes shot open. His heart struggled to pump the blood that was fleeing from his body. His brain became light, and pretty, bright colors flashed across his vision.

  Charlie was dead.

  Lucky let go of his neck. The man's raised head thudded against the floor, and the gun fell onto his chest. His entire frame went still.

  The dog went to his owner. John looked down at him and patted his head. "I never thought I'd see you again, good buddy."

  Warf! Warf!

  "I don't think he could have been saved. Not like this. Not here, not now."

  Warf! Lucky licked his paws.

  "Are you okay?" John knelt down to examine his pet. Blood covered his coat, but John knew it was not his blood. There were no visible wounds, no bulges, no bumps. He seemed to be in immaculate condition, despite his outward appearance.

  "I owe you what? Three now? I missed you, boy. How in the hell did you get here? How did you know where to find me?"

  They looked into each other's eyes. This dog was more than a dog; he was an animal with more intellect and reason than your average runt of the litter. This creature had a divine aura. He may have been as intuitive as John or Jennifer.

  "How do you do it?" John almost expected a real response. A response came, swift and curtly, but it was not from Lucky. It came from upstairs, and was from a human female vocal box.

  Jennifer!...Steera must have brought her. That's why he was coming down the stairs wh
en I came in.

  John looked up past the dusty, battered old staircase, through the uneven railing, and to the top of the steps. “Ready to finish the job?" He glanced back down at his real accomplice.

  Lucky barked.

  "Okay. Let's clean this house once and for all."

  Like that, they headed up the creaky wooden steps one by one, closing in on the Lion's Den.

  Chapter 19

  At the top, Rollings stopped and looked up at the attic door. Except there wasn't one. Not anymore. Oh, what tricks does this bastard have up his sleeves?

  Lucky, too, did a thorough pan of the area. The sunlight through the nearby window gleamed lusciously, casting a bent square spotlight on the floor. The shadows and highlights seemed to twist and contort by themselves, as if even the very essence of things in this house had a life of their own.

  A gust of wind came out of nowhere and ruffled John's buttoned, neutral-colored, suede shirt. He felt the chill of the sudden breeze beneath his skin.

  D’kourikai...

  He turned around and peered down the hall. It was shorter this time, only a fraction of the length it was before, and before that. There was no longer a room at the far end—only two doors on the right and one on the left.

  When your business is finished here, climb the stairs and pick the right door at the top, if you dare, for the entrance to the attic is sealed.

  Suppressing his fear—or trying to, more likely—John started forward, his sidekick clinging to his hip. They walked together toward the three selections, cautiously, hesitantly. All three doors were closed, their shells harboring any number of unnameable monstrosities behind them. The knobs stuck out like famished thorns. The rectangular frames seemed to bubble, the farther they went. Lucky progressively slowed until he completely halted right around the corner of the staircase. John continued his eyes focused on the first and least looming door. It had the slimmest girth and was the one in which Bill Johnson had become entrapped and crushed to death. Nevertheless, Rollings felt strongly about this one. This had to be the right passage.

  As he reached for the knob, Lucky sniffed the air to gain a better perception. Snot ran from his little black nose. A tainted odor filled his sense of smell.

  Warf! Warf! Warf! Warf!

  "It's okay, Lucky, I'm just gonna peek inside. That's all." John clutched the brass knoband turned. The door opened slowly, noiselessly. The dog dropped to his stomach and whimpered.

  "See, I said everything was—"

  The knob jerked out of his hand, and the door flung itself into the room. The hinges screeched. John was overcome by a drastic and unparalleled discrepancy in gravity. He also fell into the room, which wasn't a room at all. Instead of walls, a ceiling and a floor, there was blue sky, clouds, and a far drop to an alien-like world below, which didn't look dissimilar from the badlands when he once saw them through the window of a soaring 747. His shoes flew off his feet. His arms flailed to find something to cling to. He managed to grasp onto the door knob at the very last minute.

  Am I still alive?

  John hung wobbly for a moment, assimilating what had happened, where he was. But he didn't have long to contemplate his position. The gale-force winds were strong at this extreme elevation, forcing his body to swing uncontrollably from side to side. His hair and clothes fluttered harshly amidst the thick, freezing air. Keeping his eyes open up here was like keeping them open under saltwater. He had but one hand latched around the brass savior above.

  Warf! Warf!

  He tilted back his head and looked up. His ears popped. Lucky was standing there near the doorway, just out of harm's way, concerned.

  "Lucky! You're going to have to help pull me up, okay?" he tried to shout through the howling turbulence, unsure if the dog had heard him.

  Warf!

  John wished he had bought the Extreme Bowflex Weight-Lifting Machine when he'd had the chance last year. He needed lots of upper-body strength right now, and that was only to get to where Lucky could aid him.

  Crip!

  —The sound was faint but noticeable and came from above. Something tiny and gleaming gold plummeted down toward the ground below. John's eyes followed it. It was a screw. One out of the nine that held the three hinges of the door to the frame.

  "Just be ready for me, Lucky!"

  The dog stood in place, ears poked up, head turned aside.

  John looked down. The drop must have been ten thousand feet, a deadly fall many times over. Slamming against that soil would not just shatter bones but atomize them, turn one's organs into liquids.

  I have to do this.

  John got his head together and looked back up into the house. Then at the door. Then at the hinges. They were creaking. Another screw was stressed and starting to come out of the woodwork.

  Hinges...

  A plan came to mind.

  He pumped his legs to gain some momentum. The door swung back and forth. The increasing onslaught of wind helped propel his body. As he did this, an irregular-shaped cloud approached in his direction and passed under his shoeless feet, blocking any sight of the badlands below.

  Incorporating his hips, neck, feet and free arm as well, he began to sway faster and harder. The muscles and veins in his extended right arm bulged from beneath his skin. The sweat on his face turned to ice particles in response to the sudden decrease in temperature. His eyes remained on the three hinges, which part of the passing cloud shrouded momentarily. He did not see the second screw fall out, but he felt it when the top hinge ripped out of the wall and the door dropped down a notch.

  His ears popped again. He never stopped swinging. He continued to use his entire body to exert lateral force. Soon, the door began to look like a swinging pendulum. He was getting closer to the entryway, where he intended to grab onto the door frame. It was not so far away now. Lucky was waiting anxiously for him to take the leap.

  Almost there!

  John's face shriveled up as he finally hurled himself upward, toward the doorway. His fingernails scratched against the threshold but failed to latch onto anything solid.

  “Dammit!”

  Lucky watched, head tilted aside, concerned. The poor dog didn't know what to do.

  Gradually, the wind picked up, consistently rocking the door from side to side with greater force. Additionally, John began to swing himself back and forth. After gaining some momentum, he jerked his body upward and reached again. His hand wrapped around threshold this time. Firmly.

  "Help me, buddy!”

  His dog was there in a heartbeat. He dug his strong canines into the fabric of John's shirt and pivoted backward, using all of his leg muscles. His entire canine form quivered painfully, but he was doing his job. He slowly pulled Rollings up out of the sky, his teeth throbbing, his own body occasionally sliding forward. In no time, mutt pulled man back into the security of the Mayberry Houses' upstairs hallway. Once inside, a gust of wind blew the door closed with a bang. The wailing winds silenced.

  John pet Lucky, who licked his face, happy he was intact.

  "Now I owe you four? Five? I should have listened to you. I picked the wrong door. Things in here change in a minute's notice." He caught his breath. "Now how about you pick? You've got two to choose from. Just make sure it's not as bad as the last one."

  John stood. Lucky wandered over to the two remaining doors, sniffed one and then the other. Neither smelled acceptable to him, but the one that smelled the worst was the correct route. He clawed at the second door and looked back at John.

  "You sure?"

  Warf!

  "Okay, let's hope you're right. I have faith in you." He pet his dog and stepped forward.

  The door before him was not large but resonated a hideous brand of power. He knew that D'kourikai was standing on the other side, waiting, expecting him and his very soul.

  The knob protruded, just a rotation away to a world maybe worse than death or hell. He had to grab it, turn it, pull it, and open it. He did, after taking one last breat
h. John and Lucky entered.

  The door didn't just close behind them; the door disappeared behind them. They were suddenly standing in the attic, right where the staircase once led up to it, the window behind them sharply silhouetting their figures, making them look like the evil ones. Two shadows, one two-legged and one four-legged, stretched across the floor. John slowly raised his head and looked across the room. Lucky followed his action with a whimper.

  Hanging upside down from the ceiling by the furthermost window was D'kourikai, excited and ready to play. His figure was evident, visible, yet he cast absolutely no shadow on the floor under/above him. Suspended beside him was Jennifer, right-side up, dangling by her hair, which seemed to be ensnared by nothing. Her nose was oozing snot, her eyes red from crying, her scalp pulled painfully taut. She looked traumatized and petrified—a mere instrument to attract and lure in Rollings.

  Protagonist and antagonist eyed each carefully. One had a white coat, only two eyes, and features so delicate they could have broken by themselves. The other was big and bulky, malformed, its coat exuding slime. Each entity hated the other. Both wanted to dominate the rival before him.

  "So, this is it, John. Can I call you John? I know it's so formal calling you Rollings. Today, however, we will unite, in a sense. We won't be from opposite places anymore. Therefore, I feel more apt to call you by your unique title...John."

  "You don't call me by my name until you finish me off. Until then, you call me by my last name."

  "Very well." D'kourikai chuckled. Parts of its body protruded, and a brownish-red limb ripped out from its lower body. It looked like a horse's leg without the skin. Attached to the end of it were half a dozen tiny fingers. They all pointed to John and wiggled.

  "You are my key, Rollings. Your psychic powers are what a Talisman would be in my world. Your gift will make me mature by leaps and bounds. There will be no end to what I can do. I will be able to wake Cthulhu again. From the depths of your Pacific he shall rise, and your little earth will be no more...at least not with your kind."

  "How? Why me?"