Hole: A Ghost Story

by Rod Redux

  It sounded-- and smelled-- like someone had chucked a bucket of offal into the tub.

  Steve spun around, but she was gone. All that was left of her was a grotesque and decidedly odorous fan of gore, dripping down the walls.

  Heart thumping, Steve watched the blood and filth trickling down the tiles. Mary… He’d just seen Mary’s ghost! And she said Dean was going to hurt Hank!

  Steve broke free of his paralysis and ran from the bathroom. He almost tripped over Miss Contrary in the hallway, making the cat squall and take off running for the bedroom again, then he grabbed his keys off the coffee table and lit out into the storming dark.

  He ran the stop sign at the end of the block, almost T-boned a Honda Civic that was rolling through the intersection. He fishtailed in the water coursing along the pavement but managed to swerve around the other car. The driver of the Honda laid on the horn. Steve yelled, “Sorry!” though he knew there was no way the driver could hear him.

  He was pale, shaking all over. His heart was beating so fast bright splotches of light were flashing in his vision.

  If he was thinking more rationally, he might have paused to call 911, or tried to get Hank on the phone, but he was too frightened, too overwhelmed by Mary’s horrifying visitation.

  Even if he had thought to call them, the police would have dismissed him as a crank, and Hank would not have answered his cell phone. Mary’s husband was sleeping and dreaming his own strange dreams.

  29.

  In his dream, Mary’s spirit was trapped in the bedroom wall. He didn’t know how or why her spirit had gotten trapped in there, but he could hear her calling to him. She needed him to free her! He stood with his palms pressed to the plasterboard, telling her to hold on, he was going to find something to break the wall open with, and all the while she thumped against the drywall from the other side like a frightened little girl trapped in a dark closet. With the strange logic of dreams, he thought if he could get her out of there, if he could free her, she wouldn’t be dead anymore, she wouldn’t be a ghost, and he could undo all the terrible things that had happened in the last couple days. The sound of her fists battering the inside of the wall resolved into a muffled knocking, and Hank opened his eyes.

  It was still dark. Hank lay in bed, wondering if the knocking was real or just a lingering facet of his nightmare. He was clammy with sweat, his heart racing. He turned over in bed and looked at the red digital readout of the alarm clock.

  2:59 a.m..

  Then he heard the muffled knocking again, coming from downstairs.

  Who was knocking on his door at three in the morning?

  Alarmed, thinking one of his relatives might have had a car accident driving home, Hank swung his feet to the floor. He turned on the light, blinking in the sudden glare, and trotted to the closet to grab a tee-shirt and sweats.

  The knocking continued, a monotonous thump-thump-thump! coming from the first floor of the house.

  Hank stuffed his legs into his sweats and tied the drawstring. He swept the tee-shirt over his head, then tramped down the stairs to meet his late night visitor.

  “Who is it?” Hank yelled.

  He started toward the patio door in the kitchen, but there was no one there. The knocking was coming from the side door that led off from the utility room.

  That was strange. No one ever used that door.

  Thump-thump-thump!

  Hank veered from the kitchen toward the utility room.

  The knocking stopped.

  Hank started to call “who is it” again, but held his tongue. He realized he was frightened. His hands were curled into fists, and his balls had drawn up tight to his body.

  He flicked the light on in the utility room. There were no windows in the utility room, but there was a peep hole in the door. In the abrupt silence, Hank leaned forward and peeked through the spy hole.

  Mary’s brother Dean was standing just outside the door, his head angled down, his shoulders slumped. It was dark, but Hank could make out his features well enough in the moonlight.

  Hank reached for the deadbolt, feeling hatred bubble up in his guts, ready to stomp some ass, but then he hesitated. Steve’s wild stories came back to haunt him. Why would Dean come in the middle of the night, even if he thought they needed to hash out their differences? People who came to call at three in the morning rarely had benevolent intentions.

  Hank lowered his hands. He backed from the door a step and tried to decide what to do.

  Of course, he didn’t believe Steve’s fanciful stories, but the young man’s fear had been real enough. And both of them still bore bruises from their confrontations with Mary’s older sibling.

  Dean was crazy, all right. Crazy… and maybe dangerous.

  Though it might be a cowardly thing to do, perhaps it would be best if he called 911.

  For the first time in his life, Hank found himself wishing he kept a gun in the house. He never had, didn’t believe in the things, but with Mary’s crazy older brother standing in the dark on the other side of his door, he would have felt a lot more secure with a pistol in his hand.

  Hank leaned toward the peep hole one more time before he went looking for his cellphone and jerked back from the door with a jolt of surprise.

  Dean was leaning toward him on the other side, trying to peer through as well.

  “Sonofabitch,” Hank mouthed, his lips drawn tight.

  Hank held his right arm in the air, scowling even deeper. The hairs on his forearm were standing straight up. He could feel a tingling in the air, an invisible pressure. It was like a powerful magnetic field.

  What the--?

  The button in the doorknob suddenly snapped to the unlocked position.

  Hank lunged forward and grabbed ahold of the deadbolt latch.

  He knew Dean didn’t have keys to his house. No one had keys but him and Mary.

  From the other side of the door, Dean chuckled and said, “I know you’re in there, Hank. Let me in. I just want to talk.”

  Hank didn’t reply. He tightened his grip on the deadbolt latch, the muscles standing out in his forearm.

  He felt the invisible field roam over his hand, and then it got thicker… stronger. The latch began to twist in his fingers, even though he was holding it with all his strength.

  Grunting, Hank pushed back, but the latch continued to turn in his grasp.

  There was a click!

  Then the door flung inwards with enough power to lift Hank off his feet.

  Hank flew back and slammed against the dryer with a hollow ka-dong! He cried out in the pain as the appliance’s door knob dug into his lower back. The stack of towels and washrags folded atop the machine tumbled over him in a fluffy cascade of terrycloth.

  Dean stepped into the house, smiling down at him. His dark bangs hung in front of his bloodshot eyes, partially obscuring their rheumy gleam. His upper lip was smeared with scarlet. A streak of red ran up his right cheek, where he had wiped at the blood with the back of his hand.

  “Haven’t you heard the admonition from Hebrews? ‘Forget not hospitality, for by this some have entertained angels’?” Dean asked. His preacher’s voice was as smooth and beautiful as ever.

  Hank gaped into his brother-in-law’s mad red eyes for a second, then scurried to his feet and ran from the utility room.

  30.

  Steve was halfway between Rader and Hank’s house in Dailyville when he felt Mary’s presence for the last time.

  He was flying along Interstate 57, back in Illinois, the pedal to the metal, his emergency lights flashing. He was going ninety miles-per-hour, which was about 35 MPH faster than any sane person should be driving in such slippery road conditions, emergency or not. Though the storm had passed, the roads were still wet, with water standing in some of the low lying areas. He’d hydroplaned twice, almost lost control, but fear drove him on. He didn’t slow, and by some stroke of luck, he hadn’t run afoul of any highway patrols either. Not yet, anyway.

  Less than fift
y miles to the Southeast, Hank was snoring softly in his bed, dreaming his wife’s spirit was trapped in his bedroom wall.

  Eighty miles to the Northeast, his brother Dean was slipping out through the garage door of their mother’s home in Hicks, not sure really what he intended to do once he got to Henry Stanford’s house, only that he needed to make sure Mary’s husband knew to let sleeping dogs lie. The past was the past, Mary was dead and there was no sense dredging up all that unpleasantness and ruining the good life Dean had made for himself, despite all his challenges.

  He just hoped Hank listened to reason.

  Back in his mother’s house, Dean’s wife lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. When the headlights of their van splashed across the walls, she wondered where he was going. She’d pretended to be asleep when he rose, lying motionless as he dressed and tiptoed from the room.

  He’d been restless and ill-tempered all evening. She didn’t question him then, and she knew she wouldn’t ask him where he’d gone when he returned. He often roamed at night like a horny old tomcat, but she’d learned long ago never to question her husband. Sometimes it was better to tuck your head down and keep pulling the plow.

  Whipping past Big Bay exit, Steve began to suspect a state cruiser was parked somewhere ahead. He slowed to the legal speed limit, and sure enough, he passed a patrol car radaring from a gravel turnaround about a mile further. He drove past, and when he was a safe distance from the lawman, he stomped the pedal down again.

  Steve smiled.

  He might not have Dean’s raw power, but there were compensations.

  He had a few Tricks of his own.

  From the backseat of his compact car, Mary’s voice drifted to him:

  “Hurry, Stevie. He’s already left Mom’s house. He’s going after Hank right now.”

  Steve felt goosebumps ripple across his flesh. His hair was trying to stand up. The voice was in his head, but it felt real, too. He glanced at his rearview mirror and saw Mary in the backseat. It was too dark to make out her features, but he could see the whites of her eyes.

  Steve tried to control his fear this time. He swallowed thickly, made a conscious effort to accept the visitation at face value.

  “What does he intend to do?” he asked.

  In the dark, Mary’s eyes blinked, then turned away, vanishing into shadow.

  “He’s angry,” she said, her voice fading. “He isn’t thinking rationally. He’s afraid…”

  Steve flicked his gaze to the highway. When he looked back in the mirror, she was gone.

  A determined expression on his face, Steve flew on.

  He’s angry. He isn’t thinking rationally…

  Had he ever been rational? Steve thought to himself.

  No… not since he discovered the Trick.

  Steve was well aware he was no match for his brother in a fight, but he knew how Dean Klegg’s demented mind worked. Maybe he could talk his brother out of doing something crazy. He didn’t believe there was much hope of stopping his brother if he’d flipped his lid again, but he wouldn’t back down. Not tonight.

  Dean had done a lot of terrible things over the years, getting away Scot free because Mary and Steve were too frightened to expose him for what he was. Sometimes Steve could sense those things-- terrible things!-- like dreams half-remembered.

  He wasn’t going to have any else’s blood on his hands, he thought. Tonight, little Stevie Klegg was standing up to his big brother.

  31.

  “Get the fuck out of my house, you bastard!” Hank snarled, standing in the kitchen with a butcher knife in his hands.

  Dean strode from the utility room, still grinning. He was dressed in the suit he’d worn to Mary’s funeral. Seemingly unafraid of the large and deadly utensil in his brother-in-law’s hand, Dean Klegg reached up calmly and used his fingers to comb back his bangs.

  Dean used pomade to keep his hair neat and shiny. He wore it slicked back like a character from a 1930’s gangster movie. It seemed strange to Hank that he should pause to primp his hair. His lower face was caked with drying blood, and his eyes were red and splotchy where the tiny veins in his corneas had ruptured, but Dean was an arrestingly handsome man, even at fifty, and his vanity was commensurate.

  Dean straightened the cuffs of his jacket in a leisurely fashion, then finally addressed his brother-in-law. “We need to have a little discussion, you and I.”

  “I’m not having a discussion with you,” Hank said hotly. “You’re trespassing in my house. I have the right to expel you by any means necessary… and that includes lethal force.”

  “Do you think you can obstruct our parley with a bunch of lawyer talk?” Dean asked. “You put hands on me first, Henry Stanford. You threatened me first. You threatened my life.”

  “I didn’t threaten your life. I said I was going to—“

  “I know what you said, you Irish piece of shit!” Dean snarled. He took a deep breath, his face smoothing out again. “Now… let’s have a little discussion, you and I. You’ve made some unfounded allegations against me, and I want to redress those charges.”

  Hank’s jaw dropped open. He was so flabbergasted, he could do naught but sputter for a moment. Finally, he managed to spit out, “Unfounded allegations? Are you kidding me? I’m not alleging anything. I know what you did to my wife. I’ve had to live with what you did to her for twenty fucking—“

  “Quiet!” Dean snapped, and Hank gasped as the knife he clutched in his fist suddenly jerked up of its own accord and slashed into his shoulder.

  It wasn’t a deep cut, but the pain was sobering. Hank gawped in disbelief at the fist that clutched the handle of the blade. His own limb had betrayed him!

  He felt that invisible force again, surrounding his right hand. He felt the pressure of it squeezing down on his fingers, holding them clamped around the handle, even when he tried to open them and release the weapon from his grip. Blood trickled down his left arm, staining the fabric of his tee-shirt. It pattered on the floor.

  Dean laughed. It was a nasal sound, like steam escaping from a tea pot. His nose was bleeding again. He reached up absently and wiped it away with the back of his hand.

  His left eye was completely red. Something had ruptured in there big time. He looked, Hank thought, like an evil magus. A mad monk, ravening for sacrifice.

  “I didn’t come here to hurt you,” Dean said evenly. “I came here because I wanted to address the assertions my brother and sister have made about my past misconduct.”

  It was too much. Hank started laughing. He laughed until his eyes watered. “You’re insane!” he said.

  Dean’s face darkened. He narrowed his eyes, his nostrils flaring. “So be it, Henry Stanford. God has called me to great things, and I won’t let you or anyone else stand in His way. ‘The LORD is known by his justice; the wicked are ensnared by the work of their hands’.”

  “You fucking bastard,” Hank growled. “Do what you really came here to do, but don’t kid yourself. When you say you’re serving God, you really mean yourself. You fucking child molester! Rapist!”

  The knife jerked up and slashed into his shoulder again, making Hank cry out.

  Dean strode forward, blood dripping from his chin. “You will be a reproach and a taunt, a warning and an object of horror to the nations around you when I inflict punishment on you in anger and in wrath and with stinging rebuke.”

  Hank gasped as his arm was wrenched up over his head. A second later, the knife descended and buried itself in his stomach. Hank doubled forward, eyes bulging in agony. He stumbled backwards.

  “I the LORD have spoken,” Dean thundered.

  Hank cried out as the invisible force jerked the blade from his stomach. Before it could plunge into his flesh again, however, the headlights of a car splashed across the bay windows in the living room.

  Dean froze, his mouth dropping open in surprise and guilt.

  The invisible force that had seized his hand was gone. Hank threw the knife down and stumbled towar
d the front door, cutting through the dining room.

  “No!” Dean yelled, reaching toward him, and the dining room table lifted up and slammed against the doorframe, barring his escape.

  Holding his bleeding stomach, Hank wheeled around and stumbled toward the stairs. He fell twice as he climbed them, took the last three or four risers on his hands and knees.

  Blood… there was so much blood coming out of him! The front of his shirt, the legs of his sweats, were glistening. He fell to his knees in his bedroom, peeled his tee-shirt up to appraise the damage.

  “Oh, shit!” he gasped.

  A little bit of his guts was poking out the hole in his belly! It looked like a bloody sausage.

  He didn’t know who had just arrived. It might only have been a car driving past. He only knew that he was probably going to die, and it suddenly seemed important to die as close to his wife as he could, to die near the place where she had taken her own life just days before. Perhaps they might be near one another when the curtains dropped for him.

  Hank got to his feet. Trying to hold his guts inside his abdomen, he stumbled across his bedroom. He went into the adjoining bath and collapsed on his knees beside the tub. There, where his wife had cut open her arms to bleed out all her pain, Hank sprawled on his ass in the corner.

  He waited for Dean to come finish him off.

  32.

  Dean turned toward him as Steve skidded to a stop just inside the kitchen doorway. For a moment, the two brothers regarded one another warily. Dean was smiling. Steve had put his hand over his mouth, his eyes wide and horrified.

  Blood was all over the kitchen floor. There was blood spatter on the cabinet doors. There were even bloody footprints. He could see where someone-- Hank, he surmised-- had slipped and then raced across the kitchen barefoot.

  Steve tracked the path of bloody footprints into the dining room, where the table lay on its side in the doorway. The tracks grew fainter in the adjacent room, but he could follow them up the stairs to the master bedroom. He looked toward his brother, who was standing eight feet away.