The Chrysalis

by Deneen, Brendan

  She could hear the thing’s limbs clattering as it scrambled to catch her, smashing clumsily through the piles of junk. She hoped it was too newly born to have full control of itself.

  As she reached the bottom of the stairs, another wave of pain ripped through her abdomen, and her pants darkened with a surge of wetness. Despite her terror, she knew she hadn’t pissed herself—her water had just broken.

  Racing up the steps, Jenny almost put her foot into the jagged hole that had wounded her months earlier. Twisting herself aside, Jenny threw her hands out to catch herself and kept heading up. The clattering sound on the basement floor, a million times worse than nails on a chalkboard, was getting closer and louder. She glanced back; the creature’s head appeared in the pool of light at the bottom of the stairs and swiveled up to stare at her with its dozens of opaque black eyes.

  Terrified, Jenny yelled in fear and lurched up the last few steps, into the brightly lit kitchen. She doubled over as a strong contraction hit, then gritted her teeth and hobbled forward. She could hear the monster making its way up the stairs. Maybe it’ll get caught in that stupid fucking hole, she thought, and laughed hysterically.

  The pain eased and she limped into the darkness of the dining room, then began running for the front door, cursing herself for not going out the back door in the kitchen. Old habits died hard.

  “Just get to the car,” she said out loud, a command that she hoped would override what her body was telling her: Stop. Lie down. You need to stay put and have this baby.

  As she put her hand on the doorknob, she heard the horrible clattering behind her, followed by a bloodthirsty shriek. A shadow loomed over her, and she instinctively ducked. The creature smashed into the door above her, wooden fragments shattering all over both of them. The force of the impact seemed to stun the thing, and Jenny wasted no time in dashing toward the door to the second floor. In her panic, she crashed into the massive oak dining room table, causing even more pain. Fighting through it, she quickly made her way around the table until she had a clear path to the upstairs door. Moving as quietly as she could, she raced through the door and shut it behind her—anything to delay the monster another second or two.

  She wondered if it had seen where she went. Maybe its eyes don’t work that well yet, she told herself, desperate to believe it, her entire body on fire. Despite her panic, she forced herself to creep up the stairs as slowly and quietly as possible, thanking Abigail or Spencer or whoever the fuck had covered the risers with this horrible dark pink carpet that she had always hated but now loved with every molecule in her body. At the top, she stopped to catch her breath, straining to listen.

  The house was silent. There was a small window at the top of the stairs with an antique table beneath it, something Jenny and Tom had seen at a yard sale back in early September, a million years ago. They had bought it excitedly, knowing it would look perfect in this spot. Staring at it now, an overwhelming sadness nearly crushed her. Tom was bleeding in the basement, maybe already dead. She had to help him, but how?

  Looking out the window, she realized the second floor was higher than she remembered. The backyard was covered in a white, uncompromising sheet of ice and snow, and the drop was at least twenty feet. Jumping probably wouldn’t kill her, unless she was unfortunate enough to land on her head, but she’d most likely break an arm or a leg, and who knows what would happen to her baby. As if on cue, another contraction made her shudder, and she let out a loud, unintentional gasp.

  She clamped her hand over her mouth and held her breath, trying to wait out the pain. With her other hand, she got her cell phone out of her jeans pocket and punched in 911. She was about to hit Send when the creature slammed against the door at the bottom of the stairs. She could hear the wood splintering. Startled, she dropped the phone, which skittered across the floor and bounced down the stairs, out of reach.

  “No…,” she whispered.

  Jenny sprinted down the hallway, listening as the monster continued its assault on the old wooden door below. The rooms flashed by—the master bedroom where she and Tom had been so happy for a fleeting time, the bathroom, the guest room, and finally the nursery. Jenny slowed for a second, smothering a sob. Tom had “finished” the nursery, but it didn’t look anything like what they had planned. There was absolutely nothing in the room except the crib, and the walls were painted in shades of black and gray, resembling rocks … or a cave. Jenny didn’t have time to fully take in the insanity of the room.

  She reached the winding stairs that led to the third floor just as the door below was audibly destroyed, the creature letting out an animalistic howl at its success. Jenny couldn’t hear its appendages skittering up the carpeted stairs, but she could picture them. The image drove her up to the top floor faster than she thought possible even as another contraction seized her.

  Stepping into the still-empty room, she slowly closed the door behind her. The latch made a tiny click, and Jenny realized for the first time that there was a push-button lock on the door. She pushed it in with a trembling finger, knowing it was a pointless gesture but doing it anyway.

  The moon had come out, and its rays were filtering through the stained-glass window, filling the room with eerie light. Jenny had never spent much time up here, though she’d thought about eventually turning it into some kind of office or possibly a playroom. But she knew the location of the hidden door to the secret staircase. Assuming the monster took a few minutes to search the second floor before it realized Jenny wasn’t there, she might be able to get downstairs and outside before it came after her again. She would go to Andrea’s and beg to use her phone.

  She doubled over as her body was racked with another contraction. Were they supposed to be so close together already? Her mind was blanking on the details of the end of pregnancy, though she had read enough books on the subject. And who knew how the stress of the current situation was fucking with the way things were supposed to happen.

  As she caught her breath, Jenny found herself staring at the large black-and-white photos framed on the wall. She’d wanted to get rid of the bizarre photos covered with red scribbling, but Tom insisted on keeping them. Jenny had assumed he was drawing inspiration from them for his art, but now realized there must have been another reason.

  Had it been Abigail who wrote on the pictures, images of her final dig? Looking at them now, Jenny saw that the crazed lines and arrows formed a pattern, a series of clues leading to one picture in particular and to one specific part of that picture.

  Stepping forward, she tried to make out the image, squinting through the colors thrown across it by the stained-glass window. The photo showed the interior of a cave, bathed in shadow and light. It was difficult to determine which shadows were real and which were captured in the photo, a visual memory of shadow.

  There, almost completely hidden against the wall of the cave, Jenny saw a chrysalis. Much smaller than the one Tom had attempted to feed her to, but obviously the same one.

  The door to the room suddenly smashed in, the creature bursting through in a tangle of limbs, issuing a shriek of otherworldly rage. How the hell had she not heard it clacking up the wooden stairs? Had she been that mesmerized by the photographs?

  Realizing she had blown what was probably her last opportunity to escape, Jenny bolted across the room anyway. She heard the thing righting itself behind her.

  As she threw open the hidden door, the creature slammed into her, its teeth and claws raking her body. Falling forward, she screamed, and they tumbled together down the stairs, Jenny doing her best to protect her belly.

  They hit the door at the bottom of the stairs with enough force to slam it open and send them rolling away from each other. The monster’s claws drew fresh blood from Jenny’s face and arms as they were separated.

  She frantically reached up and opened the knife drawer, grabbing for a blade and luckily seizing the largest one she and Tom owned, a carving knife. Getting to her feet, Jenny lunged forward and stabbed the cre
ature in one of its multiple eyes; green fluid spurted out, covering her and the floor. She stumbled back, leaving the knife stuck in the thing’s eye.

  It bellowed, louder and more ear-piercing than anything Jenny had ever heard. It flailed about wildly, its tail striking blindly, smashing the wall, then hitting the oven with incredible force and knocking it clear off the wall. Two of the monster’s many appendages clawed at the knife sticking out of its eye.

  Gas flooded the kitchen, filling the room with a rotten-egg-like odor.

  Part of Jenny’s mind shouted at her to escape, but she was out of control, her heart pounding, her vision going red. Filled with an oddly calm fury, she scrambled to her feet and pulled out the next-biggest knife. She rushed forward and stabbed the monster in what looked like its neck, between two of its armored-looking sections, sending green and black fluid shooting out.

  “Get the fuck out of my house,” she said through clenched teeth, stabbing it again in the same spot. A horrible screeching noise emanated from the creature as its tail speared Jenny in the shoulder. She gasped in pain as the tail-tip hit her shoulder blade, sending a burst of agony through her but failing to run her through. Jenny screamed and pulled away, feeling blood streaming down her arm. Another contraction hit, that pain competing with the one in her shoulder.

  The gas smell was nearly overwhelming now. Jenny coughed repeatedly.

  The monster didn’t seem bothered by the odor. It gave up trying to remove the knife from its eye and rose to its full height, looming over Jenny.

  She gripped the knife tighter, the blade and her clothes and her skin covered in green, black, and red blood.

  “Come on, you motherfucker. Come on!”

  The monster adjusted its legs, preparing to rush toward Jenny. She braced herself for the fight, knowing this was most likely the end but determined to destroy the thing if she could. Before either of them moved, a pair of bloody human arms wrapped around the monster from behind, gripping the leathery skin hard enough to tear the wounds in the thing’s neck farther open. The monster’s inhuman screeches increased in volume, threatening to shatter Jenny’s eardrums.

  A human face appeared behind the thing—it was Tom. Alive. Barely.

  “Tom!” Jenny shouted, torn between delight and terror.

  He met her gaze and she saw clarity in his eyes. He gave her a sad, loving smile and opened his closed fist slightly. Something glinted inside. With horror, she realized it was his Zippo.

  In that instant, she knew what he was planning. What he intended to do. For her. For their baby.

  “No!” she yelled.

  The creature drove itself and Tom into a nearby counter, shattering the wood. More multicolored blood flowed, dripping onto the floor and obscuring the original stain. Tom struggled to hold on as the claws slashed at him.

  “Go!” he shouted.

  “No!” Jenny repeated, stepping forward with the knife held up, ready to fight.

  “God damn it, Jenny!” Tom said. The thing’s tail drove through his leg, and he fell to one knee without letting go of the monster.

  “Please,” he said. “I love you. Take care of our baby. Please.” His voice was full of tenderness. He was her Tom again.

  He was shaking so badly, Jenny knew he had to be coming to the end of his strength. How he’d managed to hang on for so long, she didn’t know. Her eyes filled with tears that she refused to let fall, and she nodded, defeated, knowing she couldn’t save herself, her child, and her husband. She had no choice.

  “I love you, too.”

  Bolting out the back door, Jenny doubled around toward the front of the house, barely staying upright on the ice and snow. The cold, clear air tasted better than anything she had ever experienced and was a huge relief after the mercaptan-filled kitchen. Another contraction hit her as she reached the sidewalk, this one much worse than any she’d experienced so far.

  She fell to the ground as the pain rolled on. Something in her brain told her to push.

  On her hands and knees, she crawled past the rental car, into the middle of the street, determined to get to Andrea’s house. Waves of pain washed over her. She flipped over onto her back, unable to move anymore. Somehow, she managed to turn around so she could see her house, the home she had bought with Tom just eight months earlier. They’d hoped it would be the first step in a brand-new life. Now it was the place where the man she loved had been changed beyond recognition, where her marriage had died. A flash of light came from the back of the house—the kitchen—accompanied by a muffled thump, quickly followed by a horrible noise and a huge bloom of light as the house exploded. Shards of wood, glass, and metal rained down over the cul-de-sac, multiple pieces landing on Jenny.

  Neighbors streamed into the street, surrounding Jenny, talking at her, brushing away the debris that covered her and gasping at the sight of her bloody injuries. Some asked if she was okay, what the hell had happened, and where Tom was. When a couple of people tried to help her up, she yelled at them to get their hands off her. From remarks others made, at least one person called 911.

  By then, Jenny’s entire being was focused on giving birth. She experienced the arrival of official vehicles in a fog as an ambulance, police cars, and fire engines streamed onto the street, sirens blaring, lights blazing. Andrea placed a folded blanket under Jenny’s head and a second one over her, and someone in an EMT uniform began talking her through her contractions, asking if they could put her on a stretcher. Jenny smiled and shook her head and said, “No, I’m not going anywhere,” and kept watching the house. She wanted to be looking at Tom when she gave birth to their child.

  When the police and medics tried to lift her and move her to the nearby ambulance, she fought them with a violent rage that shocked her, and them. If she hurt anyone, she decided, she would apologize later.

  One of the medics, the young woman who had been the first to talk to her, made eye contact, silently telling Jenny that she understood. That she was going to help Jenny deliver the baby right here in the middle of the street as the house burned to the ground in front of them.

  The cops backed away, keeping the growing number of onlookers away from both the blaze and the laboring woman. Some of the neighbors left, but others stayed to gawk. The firemen worked to contain the raging fire.

  As the young medic coached Jenny, the world seemed to fall away, the pain becoming a distant thing. Jenny followed the woman’s commands dutifully, but her attention remained on the house as the blaze consumed it. She was looking for living movement within the flames. Praying for one version of it. Dreading the other.

  As an icy dawn broke feebly against the sky, Jenny gave one last push, and her baby entered the world. At last, Jenny’s tears flowed. They were not tears of sorrow or anger. Jenny wept with joy. Her daughter … their daughter was here.

  The young medic cut the umbilical cord and wrapped the baby in a blanket from the ambulance.

  Jenny sat up slightly as the medic placed a silent bundle into her arms. Panic raced through her—was the baby dead? Had all her effort, everything she and Tom had been through, both good and horrible, been for nothing?

  She looked down and saw that her daughter’s eyes were open; the baby was staring at her mother with naked curiosity. More tears streamed down Jenny’s face.

  “Congratulations,” the young medic said, crying, too. “It’s a girl.”

  Jenny nodded, staring at her daughter’s gorgeous face. The breath suddenly hitched in her throat, her joy hiccupping briefly.

  The baby had Tom’s eyes.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Let me start off by saying that basements have always kind of freaked me out. The idea of descending into the ground to watch TV or get something from the backup freezer or tools to hack away at the nature that is overgrowing the backyard … it’s weird and cool and always a little terrifying.

  I remember with clarity the basement of my childhood home. It was segregated into two sections. The first held our only television s
et and either one or two couches, depending on … I’m actually not sure what it depended on. I spent a lot of time down there, watching bad/amazing 1980s television shows and sorting through my comic book collection. The other half of the basement, cordoned off from the rec room by a wall and two slatted wooden doors, was unfinished. There, one would find the constantly running (at least during the winter months) woodstove, the gray concrete floors, the piles of stuff that we kept hidden from polite company, and, of course, the old, giant chest freezer and the even older backup refrigerator.

  The refrigerator was close to the back wall of the creepiest part of the basement. Sometimes when I was down there, getting something from that ancient fridge, my “spider-sense” would go off, and I’d get light-headed. (Does this happen to anyone else when they’re in a new/strange place? No? Uh … me neither.)

  So, I’d like to start these acknowledgments by thanking my house on Hayden Avenue in Windsor, Connecticut, where I spent the first eighteen years of my life as well as a couple of months and years during and after college. I love that house. Even my bad memories in that house, like the creeptastic parts of the basement, are pretty amazing.

  I’d also like to thank my wife, Kim, for supporting my writing since we met at the University of Scranton in 1994. During the writing of the first draft of this book, we were at a family camp in Upstate New York with our two young daughters, and I managed to steal some time to work on The Chrysalis. At one point, while my younger daughter was playing in a bouncy house, I sat down in the shade, got out the notebook in which I was handwriting (yep!) the novel, and got to work. I think I was writing the Ray section. Poor Ray. Anyway, after a little while, Kim and my older daughter pulled up on their bikes, and Kim said that I looked the same as I had back in college when I was writing angsty short fiction. That made my day. I guess writing really can keep us young! Thank you, Kim. I love you. And I love our daughters, Eloise and Charlotte, too. I just hope they don’t read this book anytime soon.