by David Wood
Alan started running. His pack bounced between his shoulder blades, thumping in time as each of his small feet connected with the concrete. The crunch of gravel beneath his feet was a grinding symphony keeping time with his pumping legs. He passed the street lamp. The T was up ahead. He could make it. He could--
The world flipped on him as his foot slipped on stray, wet leaves. He looked up into the slate sky as his body went parallel to the concrete and then fell to the ground. The pack pressed into his back, the hard edge of a 3-ring binder pressing into his skin. Alan struggled to regain his breath. His head had connected with the ground hard enough to blanket his vision with pinpricks of starlight. Trying to ignore the shrieking pain in his back and the pounding in his skull, Alan rose, pushed himself to his hands and stood.
He managed a low lope, stumbling to get up to speed. The thing could be right behind him, closing in fast. Alan reached the T and trotted past the mailboxes. He saw a neighbor getting the mail. He saw three kids outside, throwing a ball in the cold. He slowed, ignoring the puzzled look of the old lady at the mail box. She called out to him, but he didn't understand her and didn't care. Breathless, he made it to the front door.
It seemed to take forever to pull the keys from his pocket. He juggled them, struggling to find the right key and push it into the brass deadbolt's keyhole. He finally managed it, turned the key, and heard the blessed click of the bolt striking back.
“Young man?” a voice croaked from the driveway.
Alan turned, a scream locked in his throat.
The old lady stood on the edge of the driveway frowning at him. He tried to speak, but nothing came out. “You almost--” She stopped in mid-sentence, her face turning from a frown into a look of shock. “Young man, are you all right? You look--”
Alan held up a hand and caught his breath. “Yes, ma'am,” he managed. “I'm okay. I--”
She pointed toward him. “You have a rip in your jeans. Did you fall down?”
“Yes, ma'am. I--”
“Are you okay, son?” She had taken several steps up the driveway, squinting at him.
Alan forced a smile. “Yes, ma'am. I'm okay.”
She nodded to him. “Were you running from something?”
“Just spooked myself,” he said.
The old lady shook her head. “Be more careful, son. Don't kill yourself out there.” She turned from him and walked up the street toward her house on the cul-de-sac.
Alan blew out a hiss of air and turned back to the door. His key was still in it. Alan turned the door knob and entered the warm house.
The run had left sweat beneath his sweater, but it wasn't until the warmth of the house blasted against him that he realized just how cold he'd been. His feet hurt, his back ached and twinged and his head pounded.
Mommy was going to be mad. He'd torn his jeans, all right. The slip on the concrete had made a jagged hole in the back of the left leg. He unshouldered the pack and took three steps toward the living room before he stopped and turned to look at the front door. The dead-bolt was in the vertical position--open. He leaped to the door, grasped the lock and swiveled it shut in one smooth motion. The bolt slid into place and he let out a long sigh.
Through the smoked glass, he watched another car pass on the street. Normalcy. The world was normal; he was the crazy one.
Alan bent and stepped out of his shoes. He stripped off his heavy jacket, tossed it on the coat rack, and went into the living room.
The pain in his back forced him to lean forward. He sat on the couch, listening to the sound of his back pop as he straightened. The pain was exquisite and for a moment it offset the pounding in his head.
The thing in the woods. The thing that had kept pace with him. He closed his eyes. Nothing. It was nothing. He laughed in the living room's twilight. He hadn't turned on any of the lights, and the fading day barely illuminated the room through the window blinds.
God, his head hurt.
He stared at the cordless phone on the end table. He picked it up, getting ready to dial his mother's number. His finger paused near the keypad, his head swiveling toward the kitchen. A scratching sound came from the sliding glass door that led to the deck. Alan's hand began to shake and goose flesh broke out across his body. From the living room, he couldn't see what was behind the door. He didn't want to either. He slowly raised himself from the couch, his back protesting the movement. With the adrenaline dumping into his bloodstream, he barely noticed.
Phone still in his hands, he took two steps toward the foyer, away from the kitchen. “Daddy?” he called out to the empty house. The scratching at the sliding glass door became louder. Alan paused, his body leaning toward the foyer hallway. Three steps to the stairs. If it wasn't Mommy or Daddy at the back door, he could make it to the second floor before whoever it was came in.
The hammering in his chest, the pounding in his ears, was not enough to drown out the insistent scratching at the door. There was a metal click and the sound of the glass door sliding across its tracks. Alan's mouth opened to call out, to ask who it was. A cream colored leg thrust through the vertical blinds. Feeling as though someone had punched the air from his chest, a scream trapped in his throat, Alan stumbled toward the stairs, his eyes still focused as the vertical blinds parted. A cream colored sleeve, soiled and ripped in places, reached through. The hand was taloned in long, black nails.
Alan turned and ran for the stairs. His feet pounded on the carpet. He tripped halfway up, falling to his knees on one of the steps. The phone bounced from his hand and fell down the stairs. Screaming, he managed to make his way up the steps in a fast crawl, running for his bedroom.
He managed a quick look over the balcony and saw the cream-colored figure staring back at him from the foyer. Bright yellow eyes, crimson waves of fury burning in their center.
Alan screamed again and ran into his room.
He slammed the door, his ears ringing with the gunshot sound, and fumbled with the pushbutton lock. He ran to his desk and pulled out the wooden chair, quickly placing it beneath the knob.
Footsteps. Heavy. Loud. Deliberate.
Alan stepped backward toward his bed and whimpered as he listened to the breathy gasps on the other side of the door.
Chapter 61
Her nerves were shot. Accidents cluttered the interstate. What should have been a forty-minute commute had turned into an hour and a half of watching the speedometer crawl between 0 and 10 mph. Although she'd used the traffic map to try and plot a speed course, a new wreck had appeared at every turn.
Stomach rumbling from hunger, eyes irritated from looking at taillights, foot cramped and tired from flipping between brake and accelerator, Carolyn wondered if she'd be able to stay awake more than five minutes once she hit the couch.
Entering the neighborhood, the nervous tension in her body began to unwind. She let out a long sigh. Her jaw relaxed and she finally realized she had been grinding her teeth. Great, she thought, her dentist was going to give her more shit.
The darkness was complete. She wound through the main street, the trees swaying in the wind. The occasional car passed her. Someone else heading for dinner or shopping. Heading out into the night to do the normal things people do.
Another sigh. She wondered if Trey would be home yet.
Trey hadn't answered his phone. Alan hadn't answered the phone. Carolyn had felt a bit nervous about not being able to get in touch with Alan, but he usually didn't check the messages. Besides, he was probably sitting on the couch, working on his homework, or playing the Wii.
But Trey...
When she'd called him, it had immediately gone to voice mail. Maybe his phone was dead or maybe he had it turned off since he was still in the hospital. She'd left him a message, to make sure he was okay, but he hadn't called her back.
While fighting the traffic to get home, she'd tried to think about Dick as little as possible.
The T-intersection that led to the house was before her. She stopped at the stop si
gn and felt a hitch in her chest. She turned onto the street. A tear welled up in her eye and she wiped it away as she pulled into the driveway. She saw Dick's dark, lifeless house in the rearview mirror.
Dick wasn't coming home. Dick would never come home.
Carolyn sniffed back another tear and brushed at her eyes again. God, what was she going to tell Alan about Dick?
She shook the thought away and then frowned. The porch light was off. The house was dark. The other houses along the street were lit, but not hers. Did Alan fall asleep? she wondered. In a way, she thought, that would be a good thing. If Trey were there when she had to talk about Dick, it would be easier. She killed the engine, pocketed the keys, unfastened the seat belt, and stepped out into the biting air.
Removing the laptop bag from the backseat, Carolyn closed the doors, locked up the car, and headed onto the dark front porch deck. This wasn't the first time Alan had forgotten to turn on the light. She'd been after Trey to install a timer on the damned thing, so they wouldn't have to try and unlock the door in the dark. With the pine tree canopies overhead and the roof overhang, the front porch always turned into a murky abyss at night. Carolyn fumbled for the house key and then attempted repeatedly to find the keyhole.
At last, the key found the slot and slid in. She turned the key, letting out a deep breath as the lock clicked and the door opened. She walked into the foyer, closing the door behind her and placing her laptop bag out of the way. She reached for the foyer light and then stopped.
Something wasn't right. There was a sound coming from the second floor. She furrowed her brow and walked to the edge of the stairs. Carolyn flipped on the stairway light. She blinked at the muddy and soiled Berber carpeted steps. “Alan? What the hell--”
Alan's voice yelled something from his bedroom, but the words were indistinct.
“Dammit, Alan,” she muttered and began trudging up the steps.
She was furious. Alan knew to wipe his feet. And the footprints were so large. What the hell had he done? Twisted his feet on each step? “Alan? You're in big trouble!” she yelled.
“DON'T COME UP HERE!” Alan screamed.
The sound was muffled, almost distant. “Why? Alan,” she said as she reached the top landing and stared down the darkened hallway toward his bedroom. “What's--”
“The Ice Cream Man is here! He's here!” Alan shrieked.
The confused and angry expression on her face faded. A cold chill touched her spine. She looked down at the floor. As the light faded down the hallway, she saw the muddy footprints stop at Alan's door. And then they became indistinct, as though they had turned.
She swallowed. “Alan?” she said in a shaking voice. “Where is he?”
“Mommy, go away! Get help!” Alan screamed.
She took a step backwards toward the landing and then froze. A shadow moved at the end of the hallway, something emerging from the guest bathroom door.
Carolyn's heart slam danced in her chest as a pair of bright yellow eyes opened in the darkness, furious crimson embers burning in their centers.
She tried to scream as the thing advanced.
Chapter 62
The walk from the bus stop to the house was fucking cold. Trey was shocked he hadn't frozen to death before getting close to home. A fifteen minute wait for the warm train to whisk him away to the center of downtown so he could catch the commuter bus was followed by a twenty minute wait in the downtown wind tunnel before the bus finally appeared.
Both times, he'd had to fight to find space. The lines were stuffed with people trying to leave early. Gulf moisture had struck the cold front and the air was heavy with moisture.
When the commuter bus landed in The Woodlands, Trey pulled out his phone. He clicked the button. Nothing happened. Right, he thought. Turned it off at the hospital. He cursed and turned it back on. The screen lit up. The phone vibrated. He unlocked it. Voicemail.
Carolyn's voice came through the speakers. “Hi, honey. Just wanted to check in on you. I'll be leaving here soon and heading home. I'm so sorry about Dick, baby. Please call me. Worried about you.” Her voice paused for a moment as though she was choking back a sob. “I love you.” The message ended.
Trey deleted the message and tried her phone. Got her voicemail. Then he called home. Same. She wasn't answering her mobile and no one was answering the home phone. He'd heaved a heavy sigh and walked down to the nearest bus stop that would take him near the neighborhood.
It was a long walk from the neighborhood's mouth to the house. As he made his way down the concrete path and wound through the trees, all he'd thought about was Dick.
Dick had listed him as the closest family and Trey had had to sign dozens of forms, including approval for the autopsy. They would take him to the morgue, perform an autopsy, and figure out what happened. The doctor asked Trey for a better description of what had occurred in the warehouse, but Trey refused to say anything. Instead, he'd stepped out into the cold and made his way home.
Even in the dark, he recognized the well-worn path leading from the concrete sidewalk to his backyard fence. Surrounded by the forest, many of the residents had installed back gates allowing them access to the main sidewalk via their backyards. Trey's house was no different. He often enjoyed walking through the trails and ending up at his own back gate. It also gave him a chance to wash off his shoes on the deck to remove any mud and dirt.
Trey reached the back gate and frowned. It was partially open. He wondered if Alan had entered and neglected to fully close the door. Trey mentally shrugged and stepped through, closing the door and latching it behind him. As he turned toward the house, he frowned again. The first floor was dark, not a single light on. He scanned the upper floor. Alan's room was the only light he could see.
Trey's stomach crawled. Something didn't feel right.
He walked up on the deck as quietly as he could, peeking through the first floor windows. The gloom was complete. He wasn't going to be able to see anything. Taking a deep breath, Trey walked to the sunroom screen door. He opened it as slowly as he could, praying the hinges wouldn't make any noise. The slight creak as the door opened set his nerves on edge. He closed it with care, making sure the latch didn't make its customary loud click.
When he turned toward the glass door, the crawling in his stomach became an anvil instead. Even in the darkness, the glass looked cracked. He walked to the door, feeling around. The metal edge was caved inward toward the glass, as though it had been pried.
The world suddenly seemed silent. The wind swishing through the skeletal oaks, the brushing of pine branches, all of it was silent save for the hammer of his heart in his ears. With a shaking hand, he reached out and slid the glass door aside.
The interior enveloped him as he stepped in. Trey let his eyes adjust. It was dark outside, but the house was positively pitch black. With the exception of the green display of the microwave and the kitchen clock radio, there was no light to be had. Trey pulled out his phone, touched the screen and used its light to find his way to the island. He stepped carefully, making sure he wouldn't stumble over any hidden obstacles. If someone was still in the house, he didn't want them knowing he was there. Not yet.
Once he was at the island, he waved the phone's dim light over the butcher block. He pulled on the handle in the center and the silver, serrated cleaver slid from the slot. He placed the phone back in his pocket and switched the knife to his left hand. It didn't make him feel any safer or stop the thrashing beat of his heart. Trey turned. The phone on the wall blinked red at him. There was a message on it, most likely the one he'd left.
He stepped toward it and heard something upstairs. A soft thump. Trey reached his right hand to the cordless receiver and pulled it from its charger. The keys lit up in white, the light blanketing his face. He pressed the button for emergency, then held the receiver as close to his ear as possible.
“9-1-1 emergency.”
“There's an intruder in my house,” Trey whispered into the phone.
>
“Sir, are you in the house?” the female voice asked.
Trey took in a breath to answer and then stopped. Another thump from the second floor, followed by the sound of liquid pattering onto wood. A whimpering sound from upstairs. Alan's room was right above the kitchen.
The beat in his chest grew faster, so loud he could barely think. “Just get here,” he whispered and placed the phone on the counter.
As he stepped out of the kitchen and into the living room, the metallic phone voice continued asking questions, but he ignored it.
The living room was pitch black as well, save for the lights from the cable box. He stepped down into the sunken living room, making his way to the foyer.
Drip. Drip. He couldn't see it, but he knew something dripped from the balcony and onto the wooden foyer floor. Trey's body shook with a fear induced adrenaline rush. Through the front door, a sliver of light from the streetlamp cast its glow. Something sat at the edge of the light.
Trey bent down, his fingers touching something hard and wet. He felt its edges. Shoe. High heel. Trey took in a shuddering breath and placed the heel back on the floor.
Another sound from above him. Trey looked up. A drop of something hit the back of his jacket with a patter. Trey stepped into the pooling liquid on the floor. Some part of him was afraid to turn on a light. Terrified. He reached for the light switch, his eyes trained on the balcony overlooking the doorway. Nothing moved up there. Nothing. He flipped the light switch. Nothing happened.
He let out his breath as slowly as he could and swallowed. He looked from the balcony to the staircase. The edges of the lower steps were barely visible in the shadows. Too fucking dark, he thought. He moved with slow, cautious steps, wincing at the squeak of his runners on the liquid. With a shaking right hand, he flipped the switch for the staircase lights. Nothing happened. He took another deep breath. The whimpers grew louder. They were words, but he couldn't make them out.