by Will Mosley
They were all dead now. Bjorn, repeatedly stabbed in the stomach and chest, Madeline, professionally interrogated, beaten within an inch of her life, then brutally ripped open with the same knife – by the demon of a man who broke into their home at two in the morning demanding answers to questions they couldn't possibly know – and Michael, hearing his parent's screams, woke up, confronted the man as best a nine year-old could, received a life-shortening jugular slice, and laid helpless on the floor as life slowly leaked and pooled around his small body. One at a time, they were drug to the basement and were the first in a pile of human corpses to permanently occupy that space. Emily, who heard nothing, eager for school the following morning, slept in her temporary bliss, until she was found, granted the mercy of a stab to the heart, and her bliss became permanent. She did, however, react to the pain in her chest as her heart muscle contracted around the knife trying to force blood through the ventricles impeded by the blade, but her maddeningly wide eyes gently closed, suddenness froze her scream in time and her outstretched arms fell helplessly to the bed as quickly as they had risen.
Now, blood, as slick as motor oil, was on the bottoms of his feet. He walked to the carpet and wiped his feet across it as human blood had become as trivial a nuisance as excess water on the kitchen counter. His mind simply removed a paper towel and the darkness wiped it away.
He turned to the kitchen window again because there seemed to be a speck of something, a fly maybe, slowly moving across it. Undoubtedly one of those micro cameras that they were using to spy on him. He approached the window cautiously, stepping over the blood road leading to the basement which, in the dark, was no more than a black skid that resembled clotted tire tracks. As he approached the window, the bug seemed to move adversely from his focal point. He leaned his head to the right, it swiftly moved left. Then he realized that the fly didn't have six legs, but two, and walked upright and wore pants and was not a bug at all! A heavy set man carrying a shot gun meandered his way through the thick brush that separated the two subdivisions, and was walking towards his house.
Xoscha's heart pounded at first, then proceeded into rapid drum mode and he squatted down behind the granite surfaced cabinets, paranoid that the man could see him standing there. What if the man knows – What if he's friends with the family – What if saw me – What if he's... kin to those people who –. Xoscha raised his head just enough so that only his eyes peered over the window sill. The man was closer now, still distant, but looking directly at him. Xoscha returned below the ledge of the cabinets, “Shit!” He loudly whispered, creating a list of options in his head, weighing them against one another, subtracting obvious flaws, reducing his selection to three candidates, weighing those against the other two, then he chose one. And then, as if he manned a control switch that regulated his heart beat, his chest slowed its nervous thumping until it reached a mellow, fifty beats per minute, as it had with Erica. Concern over the man’s intentions had rolled off of Xoscha's shoulders and his presence became a simple issue in need of handling.
He walked up stairs, into the master bathroom and closed the door. He blindly reached for and grabbed a towel from the rack behind the door and shoved it into the inch gap at the bottom of the door. Then, he switched the light on.
The brightness overwhelmed him like the combined blaze of a hundred suns. He winced, ducked away from it, covered his eyes with his forearm and blinked rapidly, then slowly accepted what was happening. Once his flickering eyelids normalized, he turned to the mirror to find the dried black, blood on his face in order to clean it off. He didn't want to see anything else.
Mirrors were to be avoided as much as possible because they didn't conceal mistakes like the dark was capable of. Besides, what looked back at him in the two way receptacle was what he had feared more than the people who were out to get him– it was the staunch insanity in his eyes. Though, he saw no similarities in facial structure and skin tone, his eyes reminded him of the insidiousness that was born in the eyes of Charles Manson. He had watched an ABC special on Manson years ago and days afterward, the only thing about the episode he remembered was Charles Manson's eyes and how dangerously close to the edge of lunacy those eyes were. That same lingering specter of madness lived in his own eyes and he could see it, beguiling and sensuous, wanting to ferry him deeper into its cold loins – and at any time it could take him.
He dared not stare too long, for the madness had already taken him further than he wanted to go. Even the act of pulling his eyes away from the mirror took effort. Reluctantly, he yanked them away and forced himself to look into the sink, down into the sink... not to the mirror, but down at the water splashing, hissing against the porcelain, longing to return his gaze.
He cupped his hands under the faucet, closed his eyes and plunged the cold water over his face. It shocked and dulled his senses. He shook his head and again, cupped, closed eyes and doused. As water streamed down his face, he opened his eyes a fraction of a second before a third plunge and glimpsed his reflection. The specter no longer shimmered like gold ingots in sun lit water, because it now stared back and into him.
“Hello? Anyone in there?” The voice came from the front door and was followed by a round of fist-pounding against the door.
His cheek pressed against the mirror. His tongue slowly licked and prodded the cool, wet glass as viscous saliva clotted his beard into licorice, glazing his face and the mirror. Xoscha was oblivious to sound, to light, to everything except his desire to be with it in its chaotic realm – deliciously wrapped in it.
He leaned back from the mirror, not sure how long he had been involved with it and looked upon his mess. The saliva, the fading, vaporous fog from breathing against is smooth surface, the oil and bits of dandruff from his hair, and the scabs of dried blood that had wiped off and stuck to it, all on the mirror for him to witness. Had he succumbed to it? Did it – has it taken me? He thought.
Knowing that until now, he'd been only partially seduced by the sick lunacy, Xoscha grabbed the hair at his temples hard enough to pull individual strands out of his scalp, wildly shook his head and between clinched teeth, yelled, “What is wrong with me? What is happening to me? God, help me, please! Help me!”
“Everything alright in there?” The voice from the front door yelled. This time, Xoscha heard it, stopped yelling, straightened himself up and without second thought, looked into the mirror, past his juices that had begun sliding with gravity, and at the man who stood in front of it. Everything was as it should have been. He swiped his hand back and forth across the mirror so that he wouldn't have to stare at the left-overs of what his weakness had wrought. Instead, he had smeared the giblets of human byproduct into a semi-translucent gravy and his image, jagged and swept through, only made him look crazier. He rinsed his hands under the water and wiped at it again, and again, until the only streaks of water droplets diffused his image. Just for precaution's sake, he doused his face once more, grabbed the towel from the floor, dried his face quickly and returned the towel to its protective position. Back in the mirror, he looked at himself, gauged his confidence, corrected his posture, but only as a ploy to witness the movement of that... something and its watery seiche in the abyss of his eyes once more. It was gone.
Xoscha gratefully sighed, ran into the master bedroom, fumbled with the sliding glass door to the patio – before realizing that there was a three foot long, two by two inch stick lodged in the track of the door for safety. He removed it and partially slid it open, placing only his nose and lips into the crack.
“Uh, one moment, please. I was in the shower.” Xoscha yelled.
In the street, a brunette in black spandex and a bright blue jacket, walked a dog so tiny, it looked as if she was simply holding an outstretched leash, stopped abruptly and stared up into the door. Xoscha held her stare. Were they this blatant as to stand in the street and watch me? Do they not know that I know about them? He thought, and returned her stare a moment longer before answering the door.
&n
bsp; Not bothering to remove all the nails that held the front door shut, Xoscha ran out the back door, regained his composure, and reached the side of the house stopping in the driveway, several feet from the man. The man wore dark blue overalls and wasn't heavyset at all. On the contrary, after sizing him up, noticing that his hands were scarred and the ridge line of his knuckles were dark and calloused, veins trekking the backs of his hands like wide rivers on a map, he could tell that the overalls were to cover – conceal maybe – the taut musculature of a well-built man. His jaw line confirmed his theory – square, as if steady hands had chiseled it with a set of Lie-Nielsen's.
“Can I help you?” Xoscha asked the man. His hands dug deep into his pockets fighting the morning chill.
“Oh, Hello!” The man said brightly and smiling, but then his face changed once he soaked Xoscha up; black long coat, disheveled hair, black rat’s nest of a beard.
“Yes, hello.” Xoscha repeated. “Can I help you, sir?”
“Uh, yeah. I was just out and about in this morning and wondered if you heard loud noises. Seemed to originate,” the man stuck his arm out and circled it in the air, “from over in this neighborhood, I believe.”
“Loud noises? Here In this neighborhood?” Xoscha asked and dismissed the thought with a wave.
“I know, I know. It's just that – it's so seldom – that when you hear it, you know what you've heard. I'm sure I heard it, I'm just wondering where from.”
The man took three lazy steps off the porch and approached Xoscha holding his shotgun down behind his right leg as a gesture that the gun posed no threat. He wasn't concerned with the man's encroachment as much as he was with the brunette, still standing in the street, but now turned around and staring in his direction. Her Yorkshire Terrier jostled and jumped and barked quick yelps at her, as if to say, “Why are you staring at those losers? I have to pee!”
“Sir?” the man said.
“Yeah. I didn't hear any gunshots, bud.” Xoscha didn't break eye contact with the woman. Maybe she knew he wasn't supposed to be there, but her expression said otherwise; looking as if she were waiting to be prompted before answering a question. “Maybe in another neighbor. Maybe hunters, I don't know. Not here, though. I was asleep.”
“You say you were sleep, huh?” The man rolled his shoulder forward, no longer concealing the weapon.
“Yeah, I was...” Xoscha threw his hands up toward the street. “Who the hell is she? Why is she just standing there?” Xoscha raised his voice so that she could hear him. The woman recoiled, picked up her pace and marched away, turning around once to shake her head scornfully. “Stupid busy bodies.” He looked back at the man. “Nope. You said gunshots? Well, no gunshots here, bud. But I’ll keep my ears open just in case –,”
“Hey, where's that foreign fellow and his wife? And those little angels of theirs? They here?”
Xoscha noticed that something in the man's eyes was familiar yet, warning flags sprang up as if an impending hurricane was near. He was questioning him like Erica had done – like they all had done – and he carried a shotgun. Before he overreacted as he had with the girls, and as his heart began to quake, rushing into its chaotic throbbing with his mind at the ready, preparing lists of potential attack points, disabling maneuvers and escape routine in case he couldn't get the man's weapon, he realized that the man did not know the names of the family members. Xoscha's demeanor remained calm as he said, “I'm house sitting for them. They're on vacation in Europe. I'm just holding down the fort till they –.”
“I never said anything about gunshots.” The man said. Xoscha's calm was a fragile deception and shattered like thin glass when the man leaned toward him with his statement. His reason was only a mental fog that had blocked his mind from its file cabinets of memories, and he now looked at the man, truly for the first time. Xoscha's eyelids widened and he pointed one trembling finger at the man.
“I – I know you!” Xoscha said. “My God, you're one of them!”
“I never said anything about gunshots. Did you hear something that I didn't hear?” The man put his right hand on the shaft of the shot gun.
The fog lifted and memories, like billions of sheets of copy paper, written on each sheet was a separate recollection, scattered hither and yon, into piles, hills, mountains, oceans of time lost, but now recalled. Waves of paper swallowed his mind, slicing it with their sharp edges, until the chaos stopped and one sheet of paper laid before him. In his mind’s eye, on that sheet of paper, tattered, blackened on the edges, two long forgotten words were written: Philip Kirby.
“I never said anything about gunshots.” The man glared at Xoscha. “But that's exactly what I heard. Do you want to talk to me, or the police?”
Paralyzed with fear, Xoscha muttered, “You're one of them! You're –,” The man lifted his gun, cocked it and aimed it at Xoscha's chest. As the barrel swung toward him, in one liquid motion as if his movements were not only practiced and mastered, but honed, sharpened to a hair splitting point, Xoscha lightly pushed the barrel away and used the same hand to punch him in his throat. Beside his head, only inches away, the gun exploded, ringing Xoscha's ears. He didn't flinch from the sound, however, deeming it a necessary injury to gain control. The man's chin tucked into his chest and his hands latched onto his neck. A gurgling, gagging sound pushed up from his throat and Xoscha swiped his leg under the man, removing the man's feet from under him, allowing him to spill to the ground. With his other hand, he grabbed a hold of the barrel of the shotgun – still hot from the friction of buckshot and the ignition of gunpowder – spun it around, cocked it and shoving it into the man's chest and... paused. With the same unnatural speed that he had managed to secure the weapon, aim it and gain the higher ground against a potential enemy, Xoscha went limp. No longer was the shotgun pointed at the man, now it hung loosely next to his side. Then, seeing as it was as useless of a deterrent as a pillow might have been against a fleet of armed attackers, he let the gun drop barrel first against the concrete pathway.
He thought of the slithering shadow he had seen in his eyes upstairs in the mirror. It seemed that it was trying to reveal something to him, yet, in its sultriness the gradual descent into madness wound through corridors, walls lined with moving stills, each a memory. For, that could have been the only explanation why, as he had aimed the gun downward preparing to take another life on this property, he was merely pointing it at the ground. There was no man there. However, something was in the man's place: a note.
The Post-It note was at one time folded and taped shut, but now was not. Someone had meant for it to remain that way until it was read because Xoscha could see the remaining scotch tape on the back of the paper flicker effulgent light from the horizon. He didn't pick up the note immediately because he knew what it said. But how? He watched the yellow paper flutter with an unseen breeze. I didn't even know it was there until now. Unconsciously, he picked at a piece of tape stuck to his thumb nail and realized that he had read the note once this morning after Erica had fallen asleep. He snatched the paper from the ground, shifting it as to get the most ambient light on its surface as possible.
You are not well and I know how to fix your problem. I know who you are and I know why you're here. These are issues that I can correct. Starbucks in town, today, 0900. –H
Chapter 13.
Jacob was the first of the miners to set foot outside and immediately wanted to step back in as his heavy canvas coat, jeans and coal dust covered Red wing boots barely kept the cold out. As usual, he cinched his coat, tossed the hood over his head and walked out.
He walked around the trailer and stood beside it for several moments, listening and observing the gently swaying trees as the Wednesday morning sun flickered diamond fire through their branches. Big rigs taking an illegal shortcut on a road nearby, shattered silence like exploding porcelain as their engine brakes throbbed the air. He looked down further along the backside of the trailer where a thin, dry creek bed carved the terrain like unevenly ri
pped paper and sloped to his right behind the supervisor's trailer. He inquisitively furrowed his brow.
Since Tatem and Guillermo were not yet outside, he stepped over the creek bed and walked into the woods ten paces, then stopped. The tree's trunks, mostly thin, few thicker than his torso, easily swayed and brushed against his shoulders. He noted that. Then he walked twenty more paces into the woods, his heavy boots crunched the forest floor's decomposing fodder. At no point could he walk between the leafless branches without turning sideways to avoid damaging the limbs. As he walked, the grade increased until a large hill loomed up ahead. He had no intentions of hiking up the hill, but he also noted that, if anything, the density of tree growth increased further up the mountain. To his left and right he looked and noticed the same thing and scratched his head.
His eyes turned to the ground he'd already traveled and saw that the undergrowth was severely disturbed – and he was merely walking at a leisurely pace. Up the hill, the undergrowth was untouched and a layer of frozen white dew left the forest with the appearance of a fresh coat of snow, though that would be long gone by noon. To his right, and left, there was no difference. Once again, he stared at and considered his own tousled tracks that had turned up the underbrush and made a brown trail directly towards him. If a tracker wanted to find him in the woods at this hour, it would take only seconds. Therefore, if he were looking for anyone, or anything walking or running in these woods, he should have already found it.
He breathed in a deep lung full of the cold air and huffed out the phrase, “There are no bears around here.” The trees, for one thing, were too small and too close together. Bears were broad animals that couldn't fit through most of this forest and they wouldn't stop to consider whether they would be able to maneuver, they would simply plow over small trees. Their large paws would have made noticeable dark prints in the coat of dew, or at least left indentations in the underbrush. Jacob saw none of that. But upon hearing the sound of Tatem and Guillermo, however, he began to feel sharp pains in his kidneys.