Eat'em

  Something told me I was more than a mere curiosity to law enforcement. I was a suspect. And I couldn’t afford to be one.

  I turned off my phone and tried the doors. Of course they were locked. Probably deadbolted. The only other way I could see in was to climb through the kitchen window. Breaking the glass was hardly an option, not with the potential of a light-sleeping neighbor, so I worked to jiggle it free of the small hook that kept it shut tight.

  After a few tries it worked. The window slid freely and I pushed it to the top of its track and climbed in after my demon, who was all too eager to explore the contents of the dozen or so cupboards.

  I snuck through the dark, careful not to touch anything. Fortunately, my short search confirmed the apartment was vacant, other than the body in the living room. I flipped the lights and squatted beside him.

  The ambiance conflicted with the dead man. Not just that it was too pristine to house something as morose as a corpse, but he felt misplaced. It wasn’t the kind of home you would expect a man such as him to live or even visit. Nor was it decorated in a way that I figured a convenience store clerk might set up his home. It was the home of obsessive compulsion. Everything had its place, organized for efficiency more than comfort. And without a single sign of struggle this man, who was not Trevor Schrekengost, lay displayed across the floor of the immaculate home – his arms and legs crooked as if he collapsed without a hint of warning.

  “It can’t be?” Eat’em shrieked from the kitchen. “The evil hag has a sister!”

  I looked up in time to witness a bottle of Mrs. Butterworth maple syrup soar from the kitchen, smacking into a wall before plopping onto the carpet. Eat’em leapt behind it, wielding a steak knife like the sword of Achilles in defense of Troy.

  “You pursue me for the last time, Hell Spawn!” Eat’em shouted. “Now you face the same fate as your sister, Jemima, yes. What say you?”

  He plodded toward Butterworth and lifted her from the carpet with his tail so they stood eye-to-eye. The thin spikes along his brow stood on end as his face drew into a grimace.

  “Nothing, yes,” he said. “Your silence will win no favors from me. Remember this day, Butterworth. For it is your last.”

  With that Eat’em struck the syrup bottle with enough force to send it toppling to the floor. He pounced on it and their battle commenced – the demon’s only upper hand was the bottle’s inability to fight back.

  “Damn you, Butterworth!”

  I turned my attention back to the body before me. He was around my age. Eighteen. Nineteen at most. Skinny with curly brown hair. His eyes were brown and stared at nothing. His face was neither frozen in fright nor gripped in surprise. Rather he looked trapped in a scene of serenity like a Buddhist Monk who’d spent a lifetime in meditation.

  A sudden impulse came over me to feel his neck for a pulse, like I’d seen hundreds of times by made-for-television cops. The gesture proved pointless. The man was dead.

  Still, his chest gave the impression of a gentle rise and fall. I knew my mind only played tricks on me. I experienced the same phenomenon at my parents’ vigil. If I could only shake them, they’d awaken. The mind often sees what it expects to see. Sometimes what it wants to see. But it rarely sees what is actually there. It must have been why the world was so closed off to seeing my crimson demon in his plight to rid the earth of the evil that was the maple syrup sisters. And it was why, no matter how I tried, I couldn’t see the dead man as an empty vessel incapable of breathing.

  Yet, with no time to react, I too found myself suddenly breathless. The realization I locked myself in an inescapable deathtrap only hit me as I heard the unmistakable sound of a key sliding into the outer lock of the apartment’s front door.

  “You listen here, Butterworth. If I hear a single peep out of you… oooo… I’m going to destroy you to the likes which have never been seen.”

  Eat’em shushed the bottle of syrup from a shelf above me. I hid amongst coats, starched and pressed, in a small linen closet that faced Trevor’s front door. I tried to keep my nerves from rattling me. Claustrophobia didn’t have the same affect on me as massive crowds, but I feared making the slightest movement, that the pitch-blackness would amplify any miniscule noise, changing it into a riotous clatter.

  The closet provided no light, nor did it allow for any visual of the room beyond. I was left to nothing but my hearing – a sense not as finely tuned as my eyesight, as I’d spent most of my life trying to ignore it.

  I listened to the apartment’s new arrival. Footsteps clamored one way and another. They were neither angry nor pacing. Nor did it sound like a search for whoever left the kitchen window open. This was the clomping around of busy feet. Whoever it was, he was cleaning.

  He moved back and forth through the small apartment. Spraying. Scrubbing. Dusting. Vacuuming. Until everything fit in whatever idealistic chaotic harmony he imagined. Cupboards opened. Closed. Then the footsteps stopped in front of the closet. The handle turned. The door opened. And once again I stood before the gas station clerk.

  Chapter 27

  Trevor stood between six-foot-four and six-five. He maintained the five o’clock shadow of a grizzled vet and a shaggy mess of dark brown hair. He looked in tip-top shape and could have passed for any of the runners I once competed with. Except he could run on fences and probably had no intentions of another foot race.

  For the briefest moment his expression held no emotion. It was the face of a sleepwalker, his consciousness elsewhere. When his cognizance returned his jaw flapped open in the same dumfounded expression I must have had on my own face.

  He expected a row of garments equally spaced along the rod to the accuracy of a measuring stick. Instead he found an equally flabbergasted Jacob Brook. And I hadn’t put enough thought into my plan of attack to do anything more than land a pitiful karate chop on one of his too-broad-to-care shoulders. It was meant for his face, but he ended up being a foot taller than I remembered him when he lurched over the register.

  Unlike any number of Russians or treacherous Brits unfortunate enough to be on the other end of a strike from the MI6 operative James Bond, Trevor didn’t collapse into the cataleptic ball of dreamland I hoped he would. To be honest, he didn’t fall, stumble, or even react in any manner that would be considered worthy of mention. He stood, statuesque, bewildered and unamused.

  “I really like what you’ve done with the place,” I said. I made an attempt for the door, but stopped under the pressure of a grip too strong for the hand that made it.

  He pulled me close and grabbed my face with both hands. His fingers bore into my cheeks as if he were a blind man assessing my attractiveness, except his touch was more menacing. Violent. He peeled my eyelids down with his thumbs as he wrenched my head ever closer to his, until the tips of our noses almost touched.

  “What…” he said. “Do. You. See?”

  “I don’t understand,” I tried to push away, but he held firm. Eat’em remained still on the closet shelf, reassuring the syrup bottle that it would be okay. It will all be over soon.

  “Don’t play coy with me, Jacob,” Trevor yelled, prying my eyes wider, staring into them with empty vortexes. “This is a coincidence? You’re just a home invader, huh? You happened to choose my homes?”

  “Your homes?” He said my name. He knew my name.

  “My homes,” he said. “Mine!”

  “I don’t know…”

  He squeezed my skull. A burning sensation scorched my temples. It felt like my head might crush under his firm grasp. The sensation stayed even as he let up. He said, “This is not by chance. You see something. These. Eyes. See something. What is it? How is it that you know when nobody else knows?”

  “Know what?” I screeched as his fingers dug into my scalp. “I don’t know anything. I swear I don’t know anything.”

  Trevor’s mouth fell open and he snapped at my neck. I thrust my arms between his and grabbed his chin, forcing his face away as best I could. With him pulling m
y face closer and me pushing his away, for a second I felt like I’d fallen victim to the world’s least comfortable slow dance.

  “I swear,” I wailed. “I swear I don’t.”

  He relented, but kept hold of my cheeks. “Then why are you afraid? If you are so oblivious, why is it that I am able to taste your fear?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I said, “maybe it has to do with the dead man on your floor?”

  “Ha,” never had there been a more humorless laugh.

  Trevor dragged me into the living room and shoved me to the floor in front of the dead man.

  “What do you see?”

  I saw my mother. The haunting image of her death still haunted me. Her exuberance robbed from her.

  “Nothing,” I said. “A dead man?”

  “Wrong!” Trevor shouted. “He is not dead…”

  “He’s not dead.”

  “No,” he said, “he lives in me.”

  The dead man blinked. Had I blinked, I might have missed it. But I didn’t. His porcelain like eyes rolled back so far they looked like the eyes of a man blinded with cataracts. When they oriented to their proper position, they no longer appeared lifeless. Color returned to his nose and cheeks. His cracked lips parted, forming a bear-trap smile.

  Both men spoke together, “I live in him.”

  I fumbled in my pocket, gripping the handle of the steak knife I’d retrieved from the demon cowering in the closet with his frienemy, Mrs. Butterworth. All of my fear rose into my throat and I knew I would never breathe again until they couldn’t. I had to strike.

  “What do you see now?” They asked at the same time. “Tell me, Jacob, do you see death? Or life?”

  Their question answered with a knock at the door.

  Nothing could have been more serendipitous than the three loud thuds. BANG! BANG! BANG!

  Trevor and his back-from-the-dead roommate looked up at the same time. They spoke in unison, “Who did you bring…?”

  With a sideways thrust that would bring tears to the eyes of the most experienced swordsman, I shoved the serrated blade into Trevor’s chest plate until bone obstructed hilt.

  I threw the other man off me and ran to the closet.

  “Eat’em,” I said, “let’s get a move on.”

  “You’re alive?” Eat’em said. “Terribly unexpected, yes. Mrs. B., I guess I owe you ten dollars.”

  “You were betting on me?”

  “Against you.”

  “With a syrup bottle?”

  “Yes,” Eat’em said, “And I’m going to need to borrow some money. Do you have ten bucks?”

  “No, what?” I said, “Never mind that, we need to go.”

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  I turned back to the living room, ready to brace myself in case the dead man had found his footing. He convulsed on the floor, writhing, bleeding from his nose and eyes, bile pouring out his lips.

  “Okay, Eat’em, say goodbye to your lady friend,” I said. “Come on, buddy. With haste.”

  “She’s not my lady friend,” Eat’em said. “I’ll have you know, Mrs. Butterworth has agreed to marry me. She will now be Mrs. Butter’em.”

  “Fantastic,” I said, “bring her with you. We’ll have a wedding. Just get down and let’s go.”

  Bang!

  “Okay,” Eat’em said. “You hold her.” I grabbed his newlywed spouse and Eat’em climbed onto my shoulder.

  “Jacob!” It came from outside. It was Val. “I know you’re in there. Open the door.”

  “Shit,” I said.

  “Mrs. Butter’em does not approve of such language,” Eat’em said.

  “Screw Mrs. Butter’em.”

  “Hey!”

  “We’ve got a bigger problem.”

  All we needed to do was go out the backdoor. We could go home and tell Val he must have followed someone else. Maybe that would work. Why in the world would he follow me anyway? Now, I had to worry about him putting himself in danger. I had to worry about bloodletting Trevor all over the apartment too. Perhaps I should burn it down. Pretend like it’d never happened. I mean, all I really had to do was get out, lure Val away, convince him something happened that didn’t actually happen, and somehow cover up yet another crime scene from APD.

  But there was one giant roadblock preventing our salvation.

  The risen-dead roommate rose in front of the doorway. Blood poured from his face and his eyes turned a spidery red from rage and madness. He lurched and let out a guttural scream. Then he came toward us.

  Chapter 28

  His face wet with gore, his eyes filled with hate, his hands outstretched before him like a starving kid watching a donut roll down a hill, the crazed man lumbered toward me with a quickness only thwarted by the coordination of the dead. The terrifying howl that roared from his gaping mouth had the same shrill tenor of a wolf ringing the dinner bell. From the looks of things, I was the intended course.

  Val continued to bang on the door as I prepared for the incoming assault.

  “Double or nothing, Mrs. Butter’em,” Eat’em said, “yes?”

  I don’t know if I did it because I was angry at the demon or if I couldn’t think of anything else to do, but I wound up and threw the bottle of syrup with the intensity of the best pitchers in the business. My accuracy at the mound kept me from throwing fastballs in the game, but at ten feet I hit my target with enough force to send him toppling over backward. Meanwhile, Mrs. Butterworth, or Butter’em, exploded in a cascading fountain of maple syrup. The mournful cry from Eat’em, if audible to anyone but myself, would have been heard from all the world.

  “What have you done?” he bounded to the floor. “My love! My sweet, sweet love!”

  “No,” I said, “Not now buddy, we need to get out of here.”

  Eat’em crawled on his knees, he turned from his downed darling and lifted his hands dramatically above his head. Golden brown topping ran down his tiny arms and dripped from his elbows.

  “What have I done, Jacob?” he said. “What have I done to deserve this?”

  The drooling maniac began to climb back to his feet and Val slammed into the door hard enough I heard the frame buckle and crack.

  “We were going to go to Maui,” Eat’em cried. “France. Guam. The Cayman Islands!”

  As the feral curly haired freak clambered to his hands and knees, I kicked him hard across the jaw, turning him once again to his back. He screeched, twisted, and struggled to find the proper way to defeat gravity.

  “We had so many plans,” Eat’em continued. “You ruined everything.”

  “Jacob!” Val yelled as he kicked the door, further cracking the frame. “Open the damned door! I know you’re in there. Open the door.” He kicked again. “I heard screaming, man. Do I need to call the police?”

  “NO!” I yelled. Damn it! No hiding it now. I couldn’t pretend it wasn’t me that answered. Damn it. Damn it. But maybe I could still steer him away. Why’d he have to follow me?

  I kicked the freak again. This time he grabbed my leg. As I tried to pull free, I stumbled back and tripped over Trevor’s limp body, the steak knife still protruding from his chest. I grabbed the handle and attempted to yank it free, but couldn’t dislodge it before the snarling freak was on top of me.

  “Then open the door, Orphan,” Val said.

  Hands grappled for my wrists, yet I managed to shake free of his grip before his face came barreling down toward my throat. I grabbed his face, shoving both thumbs hard into his eyes. He growled fiercely as he tried to bite his way past my grip. Blood, drool, bile and upchuck fell from his lips and onto my face. I turned my head and tried to block out the smell of copper, acid, and what I’m pretty sure was a tuna melt.

  “I can’t!” I screamed at Val as I wrestled the snapping six-foot pile of vomit. “I’m predisposed!”

  “With what?” Val said through the door. “What is it? What’s going on in there?”

  “Only that he murdered the love of my life,” Eat’em wailed.
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  “Is it drugs?” Val asked.

  “No,” I said. The freak’s teeth clicked maniacally above my mouth. I attempted to force him to his side, but he proved too strong. And blindness didn’t seem like too big a deal to him. “Val…” Sticky, wet, bloody puke rolled down my cheek and onto the back of my neck, sopping into my hair. My arms began to shake. “…I’m being attacked!”

  “Hold on!” Val yelled. His foot slammed against the door. Again. Again. The frame cracked and the wood around the knob began to splinter.

  Part of me wanted to send him away. But the desperate part of me. The part of me that was tired of being alone with a Jolt-addicted demon and a secret not even I understood – that part of me – knew I needed Val. Whether he believed me didn’t matter. If he didn’t break open that door in the next few seconds… I was certain… I was going to die.

  “Val,” I yelled. I covered the freak’s mouth with the palm of one hand and shoved a couple fingers into his nostrils to keep my palm from sliding on the liquid pouring from his face. I felt his teeth drag across the heel of my thumb. “Hurry, Val.”

  “Have you. Ever. Kicked open. A door?” The door cracked between each word. The deadbolt shook loose with each flurry of kicks from the other side.

  “The back window is open!”

  “I know, dumbass,” Val said. “I saw you climb through it.”

  I pushed a knee beneath my attacker’s chest to make more space. It wasn’t much. But it was enough to quickly change my grip from his mangled eye to his throat. He gargled, but continued to snap ferociously, as if no amount of physical pain would get him to withdraw.

  “Use it!” I yelled.

  Eat’em wallowed, “Mrs. Butter’em!!!”

  Val said, “I got it!”