It seemed that she could barely hold her eyes open. Moving was a chore, breathing was a chore, doing anything besides sleep seemed impossible. The world seemed distant. It seemed far away and unimportant. The only thing that mattered was sleep. She closed her eyes again and began to drift off.
The presence moved in closer until he was right against her, their bodies pressing against each other. A hand came over her side and landed softly next to her face. Hazel gripped the hand lovingly with hers and whispered, “Good night.”
Chapter 21
Mrs. Carol had been teaching elementary school in Carolsburg for nearly thirty years. (She had no relation to the town name.) For most of her tenor she had been located at the same corner classroom down hallway C in Prairie View Elementary. (It was just to the left of Mr. Paxton’s fourth grade class.) She was a larger woman in her late fifties with a pale complexion and a big head of curly black hair that looked suspiciously too black to be a natural hair color. On top of her nose sat a pair of very thick glasses with lens the size of walnuts. She had a warm smile for anyone who needed it and had the wrinkles to show it. The children were her work and she prided herself on doing everything that she could for them.
It was that Thursday morning at approximately nine AM that she noticed Logan Turner was not in class today. Logan had just moved here with his family not too long ago but he was a natural socialite and took to making friends right away. He was one of those kids who loved going to school just for the social interaction that he would get. He had never missed a day of school since he started in Prairie View last December. Concerned, Mrs. Carol decided to call the administration office to see if Logan’s mom had called him in sick. They had heard nothing from the Turners.
Normally, she didn’t go any farther than this. If the kid was absent for a day it wasn’t a big deal, but every once and awhile she gets this calling to keep pushing. The class was busy filling out an assignment so she pulled up her keyboard and began to pull up Logan’s record. After a bit she pulled up Logan’s home phone, his mom’s cell phone, and his dad’s cell phone.
She tried the house phone but it just rang and rang and rang with no end in sight. They must not have an answering machine. She hung up and tried mom’s phone. It rang almost four rings but at the fourth ring it got cut off by the voicemail answering. Something didn’t seem right here. Who doesn’t have their cell phone on them now days? Frustrated she tried the father’s cell phone. It went straight to voicemail. Not even a ring.
Mrs. Carol sat there for a moment tapping her pen against her desk unknowingly. It seemed like something was wrong but she was unsure of what to do next. She had run out of contacts for the Turners, but she was still worried about Logan. She couldn’t explain why but she was gravely worried.
After about ten minutes of internal debate she decided to call the Sheriff's office. (Not 911, just the standard non-emergency number.) She expressed her concern to the operator and asked if they could send a patrol unit by the Turner’s house in the next few hours. The operator was friendly enough and even said that they have a unit a few miles away and that they’ll send him right over.
--
Sergeant Davis was patrolling Elm Street, one of Carolsburg’s main residential drags, when he received a call from dispatch. He had to go check on some house down in the Hidden Forest subdivision. He had driven through the neighborhood many times. It was one of those middle to upper class white neighborhoods that hardly anything goes on in. At most there are petty burglaries here and there or a car gets broken too, or worst of all kids playing loud music.
This particular call was a welfare check on the Turner household on 8th street. The Turner boys didn't show up to school today and one of their teachers immediately called the cops. Whatever happened to kids playing hooky? Or, heaven forbid, actually being sick?
It took him about fifteen minutes to arrive in Hidden Forest and at least another five minutes to find the right house. (All of the houses in these neighborhoods look the same.) He finally found it, 1524 South 8th street.
Davis drove past the house, found a dead end, and did a turn around. As he approached the house again he slowed down to a crawl and carefully parked his patrol car on the side of the road just next to the Turner's driveway. (You could see the patrol car from the window in the living room that is if there was anyone alive in the house to see it.)
As he stepped out his car Davis felt something that surprised him, apprehension. It felt like something was wrong, terribly wrong. Maybe that teacher wasn't crazy. He walked up the driveway slowly all the while eying the gigantic Spruce tree that hugged the left side of the house and driveway. Its limbs seemed to stretch and writhe towards Davis as he walked.
He reached the sidewalk and followed it towards the front door. The front door came closer and closer with each step he took. There were two cement steps to climb onto the front porch and Davis climbed them automatically not breaking gaze with that brilliantly white front door.
The doorbell rang and rang again, but there was no answer. There was only silence. He tried knocking as well; first with lighter knocks and eventually with harder more forceful knocks all the while yelling, "Police, can you please open up?" He was only greeted again with silence.
There were two overly large windows just to the left of the front door that appeared to look into the living room. Davis left the front door and maneuvered past the porch table to peer into the living room windows. (He had to cup both his hands over his face to avoid the glare of the sun.)
There wasn't much to see. It looked like your typical living room with a few pieces of furniture, television, and he could even see the dining room on the far side of the room. He scanned for any activity, any kind of movement, anything.
The only thing of note that he noticed was that there appeared to be a blanket of some kind hanging down just to the right of the front door next to the second floor stairs. It was odd, to say the least, but perhaps there was a reason for it.
Sergeant Davis backed away from the windows and leaned against the stone pillar that was supporting the porch overhang. Something was not right. He could feel it that much was certain. There was nothing suspicious that he could see but that feeling still persisted.
After a minute of mulling it over Davis decided to do a walk around the house and look for anything suspicious. If he didn't find anything he would call it in and be on his merry way.
He started back down the sidewalk and began in front of the garage scanning the landscape as he walked. There was an eerie quiet in neighborhoods like this on weekday mornings. Most everyone was at work or school. There were very few people actually here in the neighborhood. It almost felt like a ghost town.
As he walked past the garage the quiet was interrupted by something. A low yet constant mechanical murmur was coming from somewhere. Davis stopped in his tracks and blocked out all other noises but that sound, that gritty mechanical sound. Yes, he could hear it better now. He listened a few more minutes. It was coming from the garage.
He tried to lift the garage using the exterior handle but it would not budge. It was either locked from the inside or it was jammed, either way it was not opening. On the left side of the house just past the giant Spruce tree there was a wooden door that entered into the garage. There were no markings, windows, or anything on this door. It was as plain as could be. Davis tried it as well, but of course it was locked.
With his ear against the door he could hear the noise even more clearly. It was a car idling, there was no doubt about it. He could smell the exhaust from here. That terrible gas like odor had seeped out of the garage.
Davis’ heart sank. This was no longer a welfare check. Best case scenario this was a rescue, worst case it was a recovery at a crime scene. Regardless, he had to get into that garage and stop the damage. He had to turn off that car. They may still be able to be saved.
He went back to his patrol car and popped the trunk. It took him a few minutes of digging through the trunk
to find what he needed. A moment later he returned back to the side garage door with a crowbar. The crowbar slipped in easy enough between the door frame and door. Davis had placed it so it was just below the lock of the door and started to apply pressure.
At first nothing happened. The door acted like it was moving inward but then it recoiled back to its resting place none the wiser. It had to be rocked back and forth. Both of his hands were clamped down on the crowbar pulling and then relaxing, pulling and relaxing, over and over again. Without warning a large cracking sound came and the door seemed to warp and split right at the lock. He applied more pressure and the doorknob, lock and all, completely fell out and rolled out of sight.
Davis kicked what was left of the door open and was greeted with billows of exhaust smoke and a wave of instant nauseas washed over him. He stepped back out of the way of the open portal and retreated back to the driveway.
The car had to be shut off, it had to be done. He had read somewhere that you could pass out from monoxide poisoning in less than two minutes if the levels were high enough. Once you were passed out that was it, say goodbye.
He shook off the apprehension. It had to be done. The way he saw it there were one of two ways. He either had to run into the garage and go right for the garage door opener that would be mounted on the wall next to the entry door, or he would have to go right for the car and shut off the engine. Opening the garage door would allow fresh air to enter and perhaps give him more time to shut off the engine. However, if he went straight for the engine the problem was solved, but then he was trapped in the garage with all of the pooled monoxide that was hung in the air like a dense fog.
--
Sergeant Davis took the deepest breath he could muster and stormed into the cloudy garage. The smell hit him instantly. It was much stronger than it was outside. It smelled like a mixture of burnt gasoline and some of the most putrid rotten eggs he could imagine. He began to cough right away.
The back door to the garage was just to the side of the main garage door and the car was parked inwards so that the hood and the driver side were all facing the interior of the house. Davis ran to the passenger door, instead of running around the car, hoping that it was unlocked.
He pulled the passenger door handle hoping that it would fly open. The door did not move. A wave of sleepiness hit Davis and his head started to lower. He fought it off and ran across the front side of the car and around to the driver’s side door. He flew the door open and jumped into the driver’s seat.
The world was beginning to turn gray. The peripheral vision of Davis was beginning to close end like large black curtains closing after a play. He had to get out of here and fast, a few moments longer and he would be passed out in the driver’s seat. A third option popped into his head as he glanced up at the sun visor of the car. There was a garage door opener clipped to the visor.
He hit the button and switched the car in reverse as fast as he could. The garage door slowly arched upward. Davis’ head was nodding forward and back, the smell had penetrated his being, everything was fading. He took his foot off the brake and slammed the car into reverse, garage door be damned.
--
Back up arrived at about thirty minutes later. Luckily for Davis he had called it in before he actually went into the garage. When Officer Gomez arrived at the scene he saw Davis’ patrol car parked just outside the house and an orange Ford Escape sitting halfway cocked in the driveway. The Escape had deep scratch marks all along the roof and the back of the vehicle. One look at the semi-open garage door could tell you where the scratches came from. Sergeant Davis was slumped over the wheel.
Gomez pulled into the driveway the best he could trying to avoid hitting the angled Ford. His patrol car settled in on the far right side of the driveway with over half of the car being in the grass. He threw the car into park, jumped out of the vehicle, and ran over to Davis to see if he was still conscious.
When Davis called it in he stated that there was a possible suicide by carbon monoxide. The ambulance would be coming, the fire department, and perhaps an additional squad car. What Davis failed to mention was that he was going to attempt to shut the car off by himself without any back up.
The Ford had the driver’s side window rolled down and Davis was leaning over the steering wheel with one arm dangling over the window just outside the car. It looked like he had either passed out or was on the verge of doing so.
“Davis?”
There was no response. That ambulance better get here quick Gomez thought. No sooner had he thought it then a siren sounded in the distance. Gomez tried waking Davis again, this time shaking him a little.
“Davis!”
Sergeant Davis jolted awake with such force that he nearly fell out of the seat. He took a minute to collect himself and then looked up at Gomez. “I’m alright…. I’m alright." Davis shook his head back and forth as if to clear his mind. "The smoke should be cleared now, go in and take a look. I’ll be fine.”
Gomez obliged and headed towards the open garage door. The garage door was mangled and twisted and as he approached it looked like a giant gaping mouth waiting for him to slide down its throat.
When he took his first step into the dining room of the house he was taken aback at how normal everything looked. There was a bundle of apples in a bowl on the counter, to his right there were a few toys scattered about in the living room, there was even artwork on the refrigerator.
Not all was what it seemed. The first thing he noticed was the large blanket that had been carefully taped around a door frame at the end of the kitchen. As he stepped into the dining room and kitchen further scanning the rooms he noticed something else. All of the ventilation ducts had been taped completely shut. It wasn’t just the outputting vents on the floor but also the intake vents alongside the walls. Everything was sealed.
Even before Gomez made the trip to the second floor he knew this was going to be bad. He could feel it in his bones. A chill ran through him that caused his whole upper body to twitch. His stomach twisted and turned with each upwards step he took. Each step he took into the unknown.
--
Much was the same on the second floor. Most of the doors were closed and the vents were sealed as tight as could be. Underneath each closed door there was what looked like towels or old blankets stuffed along the bottom. As he walked down the long hallway he was mentally preparing himself for the worst. Whoever did this had definitely planned it. They had made sure that the job would be complete.
There were two doors open in the corridor, one on the right that lead into a bedroom and what Gomez could only assume was the master bedroom at the end of the hall. He didn't bother trying the closed doors; instead he stormed into the first open door. Best to get it over with now than to pussy foot around opening closed doors where he knew he would find nothing.
There were the first two victims. There was a bunk bed in the open room that was stuffed into the left most corner of the room. Both of the beds were occupied by what looked like a six year old and a nine year old boy. There was no color on their face, there was no breath being exhaled from their mouths, there was no movement from either of them.
The youngest one had twisted and turned himself into the blankets so completely that it looked like he was in some kind of bizarre cocoon. There would be no butterfly today. The older one on the bottom bunk looked rested and content. If you didn't know any better you'd say he was still sleeping.
Gomez left the room and collapsed in the hallway just outside and began to sob. He had dealt with bad car accidents before. Hell, he had even helped cover one of Carolsburg's few homicides. This was different though. The homicide was some forty something business man who had been killed during a gas station robbery. The victims in that room just a few feet from him were kids, completely innocent kids. A feeling of vomit began to rise in this throat. He swallowed it and then trudged on towards the master bedroom.
There weren't any surprises in the master bedroom. At th
is point he pretty much knew what to expect. At least this wasn't as bad as the other room. He could handle adults. There they were, husband and wife, in bed together spooning each other. Their hands were locked. The wife had an almost panicked look on her face but the husband had one of the creepiest smiles that Gomez had ever seen. The smile didn't look physically possible. The lips seemed to extend all the way to the ears, but they did not part to show any teeth. There was just an endless line of smiling lips.
A hand landed on Gomez's shoulder. Gomez jumped forward and let out a shrill yell. He turned to identify the foreign hand and recognized the emergency medical technician right away.
Chapter 22
It was 3:14 PM and Jacob was on his way home from Des Moines. The trip had been about what he had expected. He already had most of the training from previous jobs but that didn’t matter. Since he was a new hire he had to go through it again for this company. It was company policy and all that shit.
His days were spent sitting in a medium sized hotel ballroom with about fifteen other men from neighboring states. The room had checker board carpet, golden painted walls, and red curtains where the presentation stage was. There were one to two presenters that lasted about an hour each. They droned on about procedures, techniques, and how tos. Each time a new presenter came up there was a slight, but audible, sigh from the audience.
Coffee and other refreshments were located in the back of the room laid out on two long tables that were against the wall. If you got up to use the restroom or get a drink everyone would turn your way, look at you, and then resume what they were doing. It reminded him vaguely of his high school days of being stuck in a classroom for hours on end with no chance of escape.
The only decent part of the trip was the open bar that started after six every night in the hotel lobby. Jacob had indulged quite a bit the first night he was gone and had paid for it the next morning. (Most everybody else was hung over as well.) The second night he found that he could not enjoy the bar or even the free food. Something was bugging him and he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He spent the majority of the night in his hotel room pacing back and forth thinking about nothing.
Close Your Eyes: A Horror Story Collection Page 23