The Cellar

by Peter Fugazzotto

  We gathered at the front of the car. The rain hissed on the hood.

  Each of us had grabbed weapons back at the cabin. I had taken the wood axe from the pile of logs running along the side of the house. It was heavy, and the handle was slick with remnant grime and mold. I had earlier run a thumb along the blade and it was sharp enough. Tug saw me doing that and had laughed, saying that an axe was not a scalpel, you just had to get enough swing behind it and then, woof, off with the head.

  I hadn't thought that particularly funny at the moment, but now that we stood there in the pouring rain, I realized the sudden gravity of the situation. We were armed and walking into a house where a man had kidnapped women, and possibly was killing them. We were going to rescue the girls, and I could imagine that the only way that would happen would be if we bloodied our weapons.

  I shifted the axe in my hand, balancing its weight, trying to figure out the best way to carry it so that my arms would not tire, but also so that I would be able to swing it at a moment's notice.

  "Maybe put it up on your shoulder," Lipsky suggested. He carried knives, a few tucked in his belt in sheaths, found in a closet in the cabin, and a cleaver in his hand. I did not want to say anything to him but that choice of weapons meant he would have to be so close that he would be able to feel the kidnapper's breath on his skin.

  Jay held a baseball bat in one hand. He had wanted to pound some nails through it but Tug had warned him them mean if he missed and hit a wall or a beam that the bat would get stuck. Better to just use it as the club that it was.

  Tug's hands were empty but he had strapped his knife to his thigh, and the gun was tucked into the front of his waistband.

  "You sure you don't want to carry your gun in your hand?" I asked.

  "Safety's on. Not going to shoot myself. Plenty of opportunities to do that already." He crossed his eyes and laughed. "Ain't slipping down that hole."

  Amanda, hidden beneath the hood of the Lipsky's borrowed extra raincoat, had stuffed her hands beneath her armpits and shifted weight from one foot to the other.

  I had tried to hand her the fireplace hatchet back at the cabin, but Tug had held out his hand between us, shaking his head. I did not know whether he was afraid she might hurt herself or whether he did not trust her.

  Tug waved and we fell in line behind him, snaking along as we bent beneath the branches of the fallen pine and climbed up and over the trunk. I was right behind him and when I landed on the ground on the opposite side of the tree I had the strange sensation that I had stepped into another world, that here the rules would change, that we had reached a point of not turning back.

  We kept to the side of the road, a line of men hugging the shadows where the branches of the trees hung over. I wondered if all that was necessary with it being as dark as it was, covered by the rain and the night.

  To our left, through breaks in the trees, I could see the pale line of the lake, its surface broken with the hissing rain. The trees were not as thick as I would have liked them to be, to hide us better from sight. But then again, who was out here? And who could see a string of shadows marching along the side of the road?

  Eventually we came to an intersection where a small road forked north, leading further away from the lake. No mailbox, no welcoming sign with bears, just a single wooden post driven into the ground with a white blaze painted across the top.

  "This it?" asked Tug.

  "That's where he took us," said Amanda. She stood there again, arms wrapped around herself. She must have been freezing. We should have given her more clothes.

  Tug cupped his watch. "We'll get up there and wait."

  "Wait. Wait for what?" asked Jay. "I thought we were just going in there guns blazing."

  "Don't be daft. We reach the perimeter. We assess the situation. Best time to go in is right before dawn. Enough light to see what we are doing. Odds are the fiend will be asleep or groggy. Best time to take him is while he's still half asleep."

  "What if he doesn't sleep?" asked Lipsky.

  "Oh, shut the hell up," said Jay. "What are you doing?"

  "Just asking a question. I wanted to know. I don't always sleep through the night."

  "Shut it," spit out Tug. "I don't need you. I can leave you here. So zip your lips and do what I tell you. That clear?"

  Tug took the lack of response for an affirmative, and headed up the road towards the Sandman's house.

  We trailed behind, pulled along, like flies to a carcass.

  34

  "Is that the house?" I asked.

  We crouched on the side of a hill behind a burnt out stump, hidden by the cover of small bushes. The rain had slowed to a thick mist. The sky was getting lighter and I could see what a mistake it had been for us to be wearing our bright-colored, high tech raincoats. Tug was smart for dressing in camouflage. The rest of us would stick out like sore thumbs the moment we stepped out from behind the cover. I wondered if we were visible just waiting there. Had we already given away our position? Had we already lost the element of surprise?

  The house was what one would have expected for some backwoods kidnapper. Weathered wallboards, a buckling roof, rusted car parts littering the yard. Behind the hazy glass, yellowed curtains hung. The porch was a hoarder's delight, stacked with boxes, old newspapers, glass bottles.

  Lipsky nudged me and pointed towards the front door. Small white ornaments hung on it. He nodded at me. I squinted through the rain. The shapes were familiar but out of place. At first, I thought that they were gourds, but then saw the lipless smiles, the empty eye sockets. Skulls. Little animal skulls. Maybe squirrels, foxes, raccoons. I didn't know exactly what they were but seeing them sent a chill up my spine.

  I shuddered. Beyond the roofline of the house and through the space between the trees, the lake floated flat, gray, undisturbed.

  "Sun's going to come up soon," said Jay. "We should just turn back. It's getting too dangerous now."

  "Ain't dangerous yet," said Tug. I expected him to pull the pistol from his waistband and check the magazine and clear the barrel. But he just patted the weapon gently.

  "How's this supposed to work?" I asked.

  "We go in there and find the girls. We get them out. This Sandman presents a problem, I remove the problem."

  "Where is he keeping your friends?" I asked Amanda.

  "I don't know."

  Jay cursed. "How could you not know?"

  "I was blindfolded. He drugged us. It was dark. All I can remember is hearing his voice, telling me to sleep, because the Sandman is here."

  "But you somehow escaped?"

  "Yes."

  "And you don't remember from where?"

  She shrugged.

  "That's incredibly convenient," said Jay.

  "She's been through a lot," I said. "Lay off her."

  "It's go time now," said Tug.

  "How we doing this?" I asked again.

  Tug sucked in his lips. "Lipsky, you stay up here with the girl. Anything funny you just run. Find another abandoned house, break in, and stay there until the water drops at the bridge. Don't go back to Dave's house."

  "I'm not liking this," muttered Jay. He was shaking his head wildly.

  "Skip, you, me, and Jay, down the slope, nice and easy, and we assess the situation from behind the vehicle." He pointed towards a Camaro painted in gray primer, up on concrete blocks, the back end covered in a sagging blue tarp. "But before we go, you fools lose the jackets. Always laughing at my camo. Now who's the idiot?"

  "What do we do when we're down there?" asked Jay.

  "Assess the situation."

  Tug did not wait for us. Jay stared at me as if I somehow could change the direction things were moving. I wasn't ready to. Tug was leading. It was easiest to follow.

  I handed my jacket to Amanda with a forced smile. I half-expected her to put it over her shoulders, but she held it away as if it were contaminated.

  I started off down the hillside. The earth was soft and sloughed with
each step, forcing me into a walking slide. I struggled to keep my balance. Behind me, I heard the snapping of branches and the stifled cursing of Jay. I kept my gaze on the house in front of me, and Tug in between. He had made good progress and just now ducked behind the Camaro. He flagged us with one hand.

  The bottom of the hill was steeper and I lurched forward in a stupid run, my knees nearly buckling as I hit the level ground of the yard. Then I tripped, letting go of the axe and falling hard, the sharp gravel cutting open my palms. I snatched the axe and crawled to Tug's side.

  He slowly shook his head. "Should I have brought Lipsky?"

  Jay stumbled along side of us. One whole side was covered in mud where he had fallen on the hillside.

  "Next time, better shoes," said Tug.

  We moved to the rear of the car and peered through the back window towards the house.

  "Are we assessing yet?" asked Jay.

  "Lights are off. No smoke from the chimney. No cameras."

  "You expect cameras in the middle of the woods? What next trip wires and guard dogs?"

  "Eyes on the target."

  The house was quiet, really too quiet, for the horror that we expected inside. Amanda had been short on details but she mentioned chains, wires, and blood, not just hers, and lots of it.

  I fought back the urge to scream. What were we getting ourselves into? This was not who I was. I did not rush into burning buildings or push baby carriages out of the way of oncoming traffic. Sure, I always imagined that I would. But it was never something that I did. It was never something that I prepared myself for. I was not a hard man. I was just cruel. The bastard lawyer. The cold-hearted son of a bitch.

  And my weapon of choice was paperwork, delays, and biting cross-examinations.

  Not a wood axe.

  Tug finally pulled the pistol from his waistband. "It's go time now. We clear the rooms. One by one. Find the prizes and bring them out safely. Big bad guy shows up, boom."

  "I'm waiting here," said Jay. "I didn't sign up for this. We don't know anything about this whole thing. Could be a pack of maniacs in there. We go back. We wait it out. We get the police."

  "Can't turn back now."

  "Can't make me go in there."

  Tug shook his head slowly. "People in there. Need our help."

  "This is crazy."

  Tug turned to me. His eyes were wide. Looked coked up to me.

  "Jay's right," I said. "This is a mistake. The police can handle this."

  "They ain't ever coming. Not soon enough for these girls. You see what he did to her. Not playing any games. This guy's a killer. We need to deal with him. Now. So buckle up."

  I shook my head. "Who are we to do this?"

  "Who are we not to?" His laughter was sharp, almost a cough. "Fine. Wait here. You can at least help bring the girls back up the hill, right." He shook his head and looked as if he were going to spit.

  Without another word, he took off at a crouching run. When he reached the porch, he slowed, tiptoeing across the planks. He touched the doorknob and I could see him counting to himself. On three, he opened the door, and disappeared into the shadows.

  "Oh my god." Jay voice came out like deflating air. "This is madness. This is all wrong."

  "We sit tight. We wait."

  And we would have. Except at that moment, we heard the sound of tires on gravel, the hum of an engine ascending from the lake.

  "Oh god, no." Jay turned to run but I grabbed his arm.

  "Stay hidden."

  "We're going to die." He tried to tear out of my grip.

  "We gotta warn Tug."

  "What?" Jay punched his arm free. "You're crazy."

  "He's inside the house. He won't hear the truck. Can't let him get caught in there."

  "Leave him."

  I ran, not crouching, not slowing down for the porch, just running as fast as I could so I could get in the house, get to Tug and his gun, before that truck crested the hill and saw me.

  35

  The house reeked of death.

  I stood with my back pressed against the door, heart pounding, unable to slow my breath. I held the air for a second. I heard it, the slow grind and pop of gravel beneath tires.

  I had to find Tug, warn him that the Sandman approached, and drag him out of the house to safety. All this was not worth it. We had made a huge mistake.

  I stepped away from the door. The stench was overwhelming.

  It was not just of death, but decay, the erosion of all that is good.

  The carpet squelched beneath my feet, waterlogged, my shoes leaving marks of my passage. Overhead, gaps in the ceiling and roof revealed a blinding sky. Mold, golden and black, carpeted the wall. I withdrew my hands and brought them close to my chest. I didn't want to touch anything, afraid that some disease would transfer over to me.

  The air tasted like an old forest. With each breath, I felt as if I inhaled unknown spores. My lungs itched. I fought the urge to cough, sure that it would progress into ever tightening convulsions.

  Footprints led down the hall. Tug, I hoped.

  I followed the trail to the first room on the right. Here the floor was buckled linoleum and old planks. A kitchen, or what once was one. The room was noisy with flies, and the walls and porcelain sink black with old, dried blood.

  Jars lined the counter. Old pickle and mason jars, lids rusted shut with time. Each of the jars was filled with liquid, cloudy, almost milky. It was hard to make out what was inside.

  I paused at one of the jars.

  Tilted it.

  Eyeballs rolled along the glass. Eyes small and large. A wave of horror rippled through my body.

  I stared at the other jars, beginning to make out the shapes in the milky substance. Ears, teeth, hearts, what looked like penises. Were there human parts in those jars? I could not tell. I would not be able to tell unless I examined the jars.

  My hand felt slimy from the glass. I wiped it hard on my pant leg, trying to remove the feel, to scrape the memory of the sensation, as if that would do anything for me.

  What the hell was this place? What was this man doing?

  The eyes, were they human?

  A cloud of flies buzzed in the sink, swarming, bouncing on my hands and cheeks as I approached. I pinched my nose and swallowed the flood of saliva. Something lay butchered in there, and not butchered in a neat, methodical way. Fur and bone mashed, organs pulped. Maybe it was a raccoon or a cat. The eyes were gone.

  Maybe it was only animals. But he had the girls. Amanda's friends.

  A fly broke from the swarm, bounced against my face, sticking for a moment at my lip. I leapt backwards, swatting, grunting. Sheer terror rose in me.

  Outside, muffled, a car door slammed.

  "Tug!" I hissed. "Tug, where are you? He's coming!"

  Small puddles, maybe marking his passage, led into another room. I scurried after them, hunching low, fearful that I would be seen through the dirty windows, afraid that I would give myself away to the Sandman, afraid that my remains would end up in that sink, in those jars.

  I emerged in a parlor. The windows here were wiped in the middle, small circles that gave a clearer glimpse to the outside, and I could see the truck, a Ford, mud-spattered, beads of water on the hood. A rifle rack hung on the back of the truck cab. It was empty.

  Whoever was in it was now coming to the house.

  I quickly surveyed the parlor – a newish couch, a flat screen TV with stacks of porn DVDs, culinary magazines. This room was lived in. An old clock ticked on the wall.

  Where the hell was Tug?

  I rushed out the opposite side of the room, and down a dark hall, and there he was, at a door, levering his knife in the screws of a thick, locked bolt.

  He turned, gun pointed right at my face.

  "Tug!" I breathed.

  "Don't come up on me like that."

  "He's here."

  "What?"

  "He's coming in the house." And as if to prove that I was telling the truth, t
he front door slammed, and the house itself shuddered.

  "The girls," said Tug. "Skip. I think they're in here. I heard moans but then they heard me and stopped."

  "We gotta go."

  "We could face him." He drew his pistol again.

  "We need to get help. We need to get the police. This is worse than we thought. I can't do this."

  Tug stared at me hard, as if he could see the cowardice and fear deep down in me, as if what I felt on the inside was obvious on the outside. "Alright, man. Stick behind me. We retreat to the hill, decide what to do, too dangerous with him here."

  "Hello?" a tremulous voice called from the front door. "Is there someone here?"

  Tug cursed and set off at a crouched run. He found a backdoor leading out towards the lake. He turned the handle and pulled. The door did not budge. He put both hands on the handle. The wood creaked.

  Then I saw it. Nails pounded through the door and into the frame. Was there only one way out of here?

  "Hello?"

  "We gotta find another way out of here," I whispered. I clutched the axe tight to my chest.

  Tug kept low and moved through another room in the back. It was an old study of some sort. A poster of the human body hung on the walls. Medical books were neatly arranged in the bookshelves that ran along two walls. A white lab coat hung from a coat rack. It almost looked normal, like what one would have seen in an old Norman Rockwell painting, except the moldering remains of a person sitting behind the desk, face down across the surface, a pistol still locked in the skeletal hand, old blackened brain matter and skulls fragments blown against a wall.

  "Keep going," hissed Tug.

  "Did you come back?" the tremulous voice asked. "Sleep awaits you. 'I wake to sleep' and all that. A lullaby sung by the Sandman if you've been good."

  We had wrapped around the house maintaining a distance from the voice and now found ourselves back at the front door. Tug pulled at the door. It was locked. He turned the deadbolt, and maybe it all would have been okay, but it stuck and when it finally did turn it did so with a loud click.

  "Get her, boys!" the Sandman called.