As Mad as a Hatter: A Short Story Collection

by Catherine Stovall

  He had been a good father, taking care of his boys as much as he could when he had been home. That had been the problem, though. Nicky had hated his job, but he knew he couldn’t afford to raise twin boys on any less of a salary and keep her in the comfortable lifestyle she wanted. In the end, it had all come apart anyway. Despite the fact she had taken him to the cleaners, using his money to hire a snake of a divorce lawyer, he still missed her sometimes.

  Her lovely dark hair and big brown eyes rose up in his mind, and he fumbled for the bottle. After a single sloppy swish of the amber poison, he felt the warm dizziness once more. Too drunk and too tired to follow the memories of his former wife down the road of retrospect and sadness, Frank closed his eyes.

  . *****

  That sound, it can’t be human. Please, God, don’t let that really be a child.

  Frank sat on the end of the bed and stared down the short, dark hallway leading to the connecting door, the clock behind him reading a little after two in the morning. From the other side of the thin barrier, the sound erupted once more, a half-strangled mewling of pain and agony. He knew he should react, do something, but he was frozen with terror and praying it was anything but what it sounded like. Then, without thinking, he shot up and headed toward the door.

  He couldn’t take it, not knowing. He never thought of going to the office and alerting Marla. The idea of phoning the police never crossed his mind. Frank didn’t even have the presence of mind to throw on some pants. Instead, he lurched forward, fueled by absolute anger, the fading affects of the alcohol, and panic. His only clear notion was to help the child, if it were a baby crying, or to make the noise stop once and for all if it weren’t.

  Each heavy step on the thin and worn carpet brought him closer to the agonizing cry. His heart hammered in his chest, and sweat dropped from his brow as he raised his fist to rap on the door. He hesitated, really thinking for the first time about what might wait on the other side. He started to turn, started to go back to the bed and call the authorities, but at that moment, a tiny and heart wrenching wail came from within the next room.

  He pounded so hard his knuckles left impressions in the cheap material of the door, and his skin split open. Crying out, he asked, “Is everything okay in there? Are you and the child okay?”

  He waited for an answer, but only the piercing keening came through. Hideous and heartbreaking, the baby screamed. He tried again, hitting the door with the flat side of his fist several more times. “If you don’t answer me, I’m calling the police! Damn it! Do you hear me?”

  He waited, cringing as the sound of the child—surely wounded and needing assistance—stabbed his heart and his brain. A half of a minute passed, and just as he spun to grab his phone, the woman called out. At first, he thought he had imagined the faint voice. He listened to make sure, pressing his ear to the door, trying to block out the child.

  “Help us. Please.”

  She sounded young, scared, and wounded. The phone and his own safety forgotten, Frank slid the bolt back on the lock at the top of the door and turned the handle. With a violent shake, he realized the bolt on the other side was still in place. His mind raced as he envisioned horrors he hadn’t known his imagination could create.

  Frank called out to the woman and hoped she would hear, “If you can, stay away from the door. I’m going to break it down. Hold on, I’m coming. Just hold on.”

  He took a step back and kicked, sending his bare heel into the paneled front. The door bowed, and he heard a crack as the baby screamed louder. Another kick and the frame shattered, sending the door flying inward into the blackness that lay beyond. The light from his hallway illuminated the inky darkness just enough for him to see the room next to his was empty. There was no crying child, no injured woman. Nothing but shadows and a creeping chill that clung to his sweat dampened skin.

  He walked backward, trailing his hand down the wall for guidance, unwilling to remove his eyes from the gaping hole left by the opened and battered door. The fear pumped his heart until it pounded against his ribs, and when the back of his knees touched the edge of the bed, Frank screamed out as he tumbled backward.

  As quickly as he could, he yanked open the nightstand drawer and pulled out the standard hotel flashlight—the kind that can be bought for a dollar or two. The cheap red plastic transformed him back to a man from a frightened child as if it were a powerful weapon. His bravery restored, he bounded for the seemingly empty room, determined to figure out what trickster had caused him to break the door. He didn’t intend to pay for the damage when he had been fooled into thinking a woman and child were in peril.

  He stepped through the splintered frame and into the dark, the weak beam of light providing only a small yellow circle of luminance. Frank slowly turned and searched the main room. Nothing out of the ordinary presented itself, so he lowered himself to the floor. His free hand reached out and grasped the dust ruffle, and his heart hit hard as he lifted the thin fabric, the childish fear of the monsters under the bed filling him. Even after he realized nothing but dust bunnies existed in the small, dark space, his hands shook.

  The feel of the dingy carpet disgusting him, Frank struggled upright and checked the bathroom. Again, he found nothing. Not a single person or audio device hid within the room. He leaned against the small sink, the first edges of embarrassment crept into his mind. Thinking about how tired he had been upon arrival, his stress levels, and the amount of bourbon he had consumed left him wondering if it had all been some kind of sleep walking episode. With no other explanation, it seemed the only reasonable rationalization.

  He stepped out of the bathroom and shined the flashlight down the hall. When he saw the room also had a connecting door, he thought, Odd. I didn’t realize that all the rooms were attached. As he stared, his curiosity over-powered the anger and shame. With a hesitant step forward, he reached for the knob, not knowing why.

  Just as his trembling fingers brushed the metal, a breath of cold air etched its way across the back of Frank’s neck, and the flashlight’s battery gave out. The small beam of light thinned, blinked once, then twice, before extinguishing. Cast into the complete and utter darkness, he gasped. His palm slapping against the head of the flashlight, his feet moved of their own violation. At the end of the hallway, a mere four foot from the edge of the light peering in from his room, the beam returned, weak but there.

  Frank stopped in his panicked escape, and breathed a sigh of relief. It seemed to him, the tiny beacon of light was the difference between scary and shit-his-pants terrified. Shaking his head at his own actions, he started to return to his room. The first step he took to cross the small, main room froze in mid air. He heard it, not the baby, but a scratching. Not a frantic clawing as if someone’s dog was digging at the door. The sound was a long, almost leisurely scraping of nails deep within the flimsy wood.

  Frank jerked his head around, his eyes wide with terror. The feeling of something watching from the darkness nagged at him, making his breaths come in short rapid burst. The temperature of the room dropped, but sweat poured from his body, drenching his white undershirt. The scratching paused for a brief moment, and then started again in another long, deliberate succession.

  He spun back around with the intention of running back to his room, as he whimpered. Unbidden tears burst forth when his eyes fell onto the shade of a woman. She stood in the doorway, blocking his escape, her face stretched into the mask of a frozen scream. Her hands gripped at the front of her bloody nightgown as she drifted forward. The sound of weeping filled his head, though the woman’s blank stare held no tears.

  Her voice filled every ounce of his being as she thrust her pleading words deep inside his brain. “Please. Help me. My baby, I can’t find my baby.” The haunting statement seemed to echo in the silence that followed.

  Frank couldn’t think, he couldn’t move. He tried to scream, but his voice froze in his throat, forming a choking barrier. The specter grew nearer, and he backed up a few steps, but the s
cratching came again, accompanied by a deep growl. He was trapped between the two, one unknown and one terrifying. Another step back and he realized he was standing next to the bathroom. His hand automatically went to the switch, and to his surprise, it flooded the room with bright light.

  His eyes fell on the shower, and Frank vomited. The retching made him double over as he choked on regurgitated whiskey and his own tears. He tried to look away, he tried to stop his body from heaving, but he was helpless—as helpless as the thing in the stained tub.

  The strangled cry of the child had come from that room. It had come from the crimson mess in the bathtub. The innocent life had been torn from the womb, and the horrors the tiny soul had endured pounded against Frank’s sensibilities as he stumbled back into the hall. Falling backward, he tried to scamper away. The terrible clawing forgotten, he fought to escape as the air burst out of his chest in a hoarse throated scream.

  The woman followed him, her bloody hands stretched outward as she continued to cry for help. How she could not, even in her dead state, hear the wails from the baby, Frank couldn’t know. The sounds of his screams did not drown out the terrible and tragic sound. The combination of mother and child drove him to madness as he reached the door to the other room.

  Not caring what awaited him on the other side, he struggled to stand, and blindly tugged at the doorknob. When he remembered the locks holding the door in place, he dragged his eyes away from the ghostly woman to slide the bolt. The door rattled, and a deep growl rose up from the depths of what lay beyond, just as a cold hand gripped his shoulder —a vice made of solid ice.

  He whipped back around, slamming his body into the corner and thrusting his arms forward in an attempt to push away his attacker. The feeling of his skin passing through the woman’s form made his entire body crawl as if covered in fat, slick earthworms.

  The ability to scream left him once again as he stared into her dead eyes. His sanity slipped, and he thought of how pretty she might have been when alive. Young, yes. She must have been young, pregnant, and in the prime of her life when whatever horrors that left her a bloody and wailing ghost befell her.

  Horror left him mute and knowing he was going to die, but Frank found the smallest kernel of bravery and defiance living in his heart. His voice still shook like that of a frightened child, but he demanded, “Who are you? What do you want? Can’t you just leave me alone?”

  The woman freed him from her grip as she twisted her hands in the stained nightgown once more. A moan escaped her stretched lips, and then to Frank’s horror, she answered him. “The woman, she came, she took my baby.” The spirit audibly wept, but still, there was no change in the mask of her face. “Help me. Please, help me.”

  Despite his fear, he pitied the tortured souls of the woman and the child as the sounds of their cries blended together in a heartbreaking sonata of terror. “How? How do I help you?”

  She grabbed for him again, and as he jerked away, a sick laughter replaced her mournful weeping and her cloudy white irises turned black. The voice was no longer the grieving mother pleading for assistance; it was that of the devil as it screamed, “Be one of us. Stay here forever!”

  Frank turned the handle, slamming his body into the door. To his relief and remorse, the frame gave and he fell through, landing on his face even as his feet scampered to push him over the threshold. Alternating rapid, panicked jerks of his head, he searched the room before him and the hall behind him. The woman faded in a haunting cry, leaving him to face whatever hid within.

  ****

  He stood in the darkness, trying desperately to breathe. He was shaking, dizzy, nauseated, and more afraid than he had ever been. The flashlight had been lost, and in the ebony darkness, he tried to gain his bearings. He was at the end of the hallway, which meant two things. First, the rooms must be mirroring each other. Secondly, the bathroom would only be a few steps in front of him.

  “What the fuck? What the holy fuck?” His words were barely a whisper, but in the absolute silence of the room, it sounded as if he had shouted.

  His hands unconsciously raked through his thinning hair, and Frank sucked in deep breaths, willing his heartbeat to slow. His clothes were drenched and his shoulder, where the woman had grasped him, ached with a fiercely cold burn. Sharp pains ran from his arm and into his chest, making him look longingly at the small triangle of light that ebbed out of the doorway to his room. That small space of light seemed so very far away when he looked too long, the room began to tilt in an unnerving manner.

  Safe here. Safe in this spot. I could go to the door, risk whatever might be hiding. I could stay here and wait for daylight. Wait for that woman from the office to come—Marla. Images of coral pink lips filled his mind only to be replaced by visions of giant bloody claws as his hands pressed flat on the wall behind him for balance, and he felt deep gouges. The dizziness grew as he tried to fight for consciousness. I will just stay right here, right here where I am safe.

  Back sliding down the wall, feeling the huge rips in the cheap plaster, Frank flopped to the ground. He sat, head back, his crown resting against the tattered wall paper, feet flat, and knees up with his wrist dangling on top of them. Despite still being scared half to death, he breathed easier listening to the silence. The deceptive peace that had settled over the darkened room lulled him into a sense of false security. Eyes heavy from emotional exhaustion and the alcohol still churning in his blood, he let them close.

  “Give us your soul,” this hiss came from the doorway, curling about his ear like a wet tongue.

  “No!” the word trailed out from his mouth in one long scream. On hands and knees, Frank scampered away into the darkness.

  From behind him, the sound of the mother’s screaming laughter filled the hall, and the baby cried once more. He lost track of where he was, and only emptiness surrounded him as he flailed his arms in panic. Something soft brushed his hand, and instantly thinking it was the bed, he felt relief. If he had found the bed, the door would only be a few feet away.

  The door, where the hell is the door?

  A long, loud growl ripped through the silence. The vibration of the beast’s hungry snarl sinking Frank’s stomach, he kicked out his feet. Half-crawling and half-scooting away from the sound, he slammed into something solid.

  Another wall, shit. No. The rooms are not the same. I’m going to die. The poisoned thoughts spun through him like a hurricane as he cowered, waiting for the worst.

  The unmistakable sound of sharp nails and teeth ripping through wet, fluid, softness filled the room. Frank could hear the thing shredding whatever poor and retched thing had become its meal. Each sloppy chomp of its jowls emitted the sharp clip of teeth and more dripping splatter into the otherwise silent room.

  When the monster did not come for him, Frank ceased to cower with his hands above his head. Slowly, moving each limp as quietly and gently as possible, he unfolded from the fetal position and lay flat on his round belly. The smell of the carpet beneath him reeked of decay and filth, but he held his breath against it, and waited.

  The thing continued to chew meat from bone and lap up the fluid that Frank prayed was not blood. He grew braver, the fight or flight instinct kicking in with his adrenaline. On all fours, he hovered, and waited. Still, the creature did not move to attack. He lifted his right hand and moved it a few inches forward, his crazed mind instantly playing the tune of “The Hokey Pokey”.

  In fact, as he lifted his opposite knee and brought it back down in utter silence on the sticky surface of the carpet, the words played through his head. You put your right hand in, you take right hand out. You put your right hand in, and you shake it all about. Even in such a state, the ever sensible Frank recognized the hysteria as it set in. His logical side insisting he stay calm, he moved his left hand forward, paused, and listened. Still, the beast did not come for him.

  He moved faster, thinking himself safe. Each slow motion movement was done in utter silence as he strained his ears. The whole time
he continued to try to hold onto hope. There had to be a way out of the room. There had to be another door. They wouldn’t have just an empty storage area, or wherever he was, without it having a door separate from the adjoining room. It wouldn’t make sense.

  Too fearful to even wipe the sweat from his brow, he prayed the small patter of a drop falling to the carpet wouldn’t awaken the monster’s attention. With luck, it did not. Frank gained a few feet from where he had been, being sure to stay as close to the wall as possible without brushing against it. His hope rose, for even if the monster heard him once he reached the door or a window, he could possibly break through and escape before the thing managed to maim or kill him. Lifting his right hand again, he brought it down, and his fingers brushed another wall.

  Frank had never been a religious man; he was a man of mathematics and logic. However, in the moment that he skirted his fingers gently along the edge of the baseboard in front of him, he prayed.

  Dear, Lord. Please forgive me of my sins. Please help me, oh Lord. I swear upon my soul, if you help me escape this mad hell, I will never lie, cheat, or steal ever again. I will be a good man. I will go to church every Sunday. I will do anything, dear God. Please help—

  Both his brain and his heart seemed to come to an abrupt halt as his fingers brushed the cool edge of a door jam. With quick, shallow breaths, he tried to clear his mind and re-start his heart. Unconsumed by his task of crawling, his attention once more focused outward. How he wished he could cover his ears with his hands as the terrible mutilation of some dead thing continued on behind him. Every now and again, a rip or a chomp was punctuated with thesame eerie snarl.

  Just stand up. Find the knob, and get the hell out of here. Come on, Frank! Do it before that damn thing hears you.