Storberry

by Dan Padavona

  She started down the staircase.

  The old stairs creaked underfoot like mewling cats. The steps made a darn good alarm system, she realized. If someone broke in through the basement, she would hear them coming from every room in the house.

  At the bottom she reached into the gloom of the laundry room and pulled the string on the overhead bulb. She saw the unloaded Remington hanging on the wall beyond the washer and dryer. There was a tool chest under the rifle, and here she found shells in the top drawer. She stuffed a handful into her pocket and pulled the Remington off the wall.

  As a putrid stench drifted into the room, Mary gagged in repulsion. It reminded her of chunks of spoiled milk. She expected to find a dead rat or squirrel crawling with maggots in a corner, but there was no sign of a decaying animal. She peered behind the washer and dryer units and found strands of cobwebs hanging off the pipes like Christmas garland.

  There was still the finished room at the back of the basement to check. She hefted the Remington over her shoulder and flipped the wall switch in the final room.

  Brown wood paneling covered the walls. Boxes full of books and business forms were neatly arranged on a musty shag carpet.

  She felt a breeze on her shoulder. On the far wall, she saw the basement window wrenched open, splintered and askew. Translucent curtains fluttered inward like an apparition. As a cold chill welled up in her chest, she fumbled with the shells and loaded the rifle.

  She raised the sight to eye level and turned in a full circle, ready to fire at the first sign of danger. Blood throbbed in her temples, and her mouth felt parched as if she had swallowed a handful of sand. She knew she couldn't fire the weapon accurately until she steadied her hands.

  She breathed deeply and then repeated. Her finger rested on the trigger.

  “Whoever you are, I have a gun. Do you hear me?”

  The horrid smell bled through the basement, growing stronger now.

  “I'm giving you five seconds to walk up the stairs and exit the house. No questions asked.”

  The quiver in her voice belied her boldness.

  “Five.

  Four.

  Three.”

  The curtains danced in the wind as though mocking her.

  “Two.

  One.”

  She whipped about in another circle and verified that the room was clear, then she crept toward the open window, rifle readied. She cast nervous glances behind her.

  There was a steel filing cabinet in the corner, tall enough for someone to hide behind. As her heartbeat quickened, she crept closer, feeling the night air from the window pouring down the back of her neck.

  She swung the Remington around the side of the cabinet. There was nothing but shag carpet.

  As she returned to the laundry room, her shadow and that of the Remington followed across the walls, lengthening absurdly in the incandescent light like funhouse tricks. She gagged at the fetid stench.

  She swung the loaded rifle around the side of the standing freezer but still could not locate the intruder. The one remaining hiding spot was behind the water heater.

  Anger boiled inside of her—someone had violated her home. She wondered if she would ever again feel secure within these walls.

  Mary darted around the back of the water heater with a quickness unexpected from a middle-aged café owner. Still there was no sign of the intruder.

  She lowered the rifle, and her shoulder reverberated with pins and needles.

  It was likely that the intruder had come and gone, exiting the same way he had entered.

  I’ll go next door to the Klines and ask if the husband will walk with me through the upstairs, just to be on the safe side.

  As she ascended the staircase, the rifle hanging at arm’s length, an uneasy feeling that she had missed something nagged at the back of her mind.

  She closed the basement door behind her and chained it, not stopping to consider the chain’s impotence against a real threat.

  The glass door to the deck slid open in a whisper. The insects were chirring louder now, encasing the night in song. The boughs of the cherry tree reached toward her like grasping hands. The branches brushed together in the breeze, and she jumped at the sound.

  The windows to the Klines’ house were dark. She felt self-conscious about knocking on their door and waking them but was sure they would understand given the circumstances. Then she noticed the empty driveway. When had they left? She hadn't heard their car pull away.

  She really was all alone now. The towering silo to the family farm seemed a hundred miles away. The windows to their farmhouse had gone dark as well. A cold dread settled over her.

  When she returned inside and slid the glass door shut along its metal track, the fear that she had missed something in the basement grew stronger. She had the urge to get in her car and drive—it didn't matter where to. Just get the hell out of Dodge.

  On the kitchen counter was a glass jar of hot peppers she had canned last October.

  The peppers...that I canned...

  The realization grasped her like an icy hand touching her shoulder. The alcove under the stairs, where she stored her canning jars. She hadn’t checked the goddamn alcove. There was plenty of room for someone to...

  The acrid smell from the basement reached her nostrils. Her throat went dry, tongue swelling in her mouth like a balloon. She grasped the Remington.

  From beyond the basement door came the strained creaking of the basement stairs under heavy footfalls.

  Six

  Mary turned for the living room as the basement door exploded off its hinges. Her mind refused to believe what it had seen from the corner of her eye. It was of nightmares and beyond her comprehension.

  She ran through the living room and yanked against the handle of the front door. The molding was splintered and deformed, the door warped shut.

  Already the footsteps approached through the kitchen. The back exit to the deck was too far away, and she would never escape in time. The kitchen light painted a grotesque shadow growing against the dining room floor.

  She took the stairs two at a time, her heart thudding in her ears. At the top of the landing she dropped the Remington. As the thud of footsteps in the living room shook the stair railing, she recovered the weapon and dashed for the bedroom, not daring to look at what stood at the base of the staircase.

  Mary whipped the bedroom door shut. She turned the lock on the handle and fumbled with the hook and eye latch on the door. The wooden stairs groaned, stressed by inhuman weight. The intruder was halfway up the staircase.

  As she huddled behind her dresser within the darkened bedroom, she glanced at the window. Her house was a tall two stories. It wasn't likely that she would survive the leap, but if it came to it...

  There was a moment of quiet, and then the floorboards outside the bedroom door squealed to the point of snapping. The thing laughed.

  Mary didn't hesitate. The gunshot exploded through the bedroom door. It left a gaping hole where the intruder’s chest should have been. She fired again, this time higher toward the thing’s upper body. The bullet burst through the wood and left a trail of splinters and dust in its wake. A great crash came from beyond the door, as though a heavy piece of furniture had dropped into the hallway. The floor shook beneath her.

  The hallway went silent. While she reached into her pocket for more ammunition, Mary's hands shook, and two bullets spilled out and rolled across the wood floor. She stopped them with her foot and drew them in, then reloaded the weapon. At least the intruder was dead—

  The door handle turned. It was subtle, but she was sure she had seen it move.

  She fired the rifle.

  And again.

  The second shot blew a gaping hole through the center of the door, large enough for a small child to step through.

  Her mouth quivered, seeming to speak words that only her mind could hear. She watched for movement through the opening. The smell of gunpowder hung in the air, and dust motes flu
ttered through the holes in the bedroom door.

  She shuddered in the gloom for what seemed an eternity. Only silence and the dull glow of lower floor lighting followed through the hole.

  Someone must have heard the gunshots. Help would soon be on the way.

  Mary crawled across the hardwood floor with the Remington clutched in her right hand. She reached the door and rested her back against it, but she couldn't bring herself to look through the hole. Not yet.

  You killed an intruder before he killed you. That's all there is to it.

  But what she had seen ascending out of the basement had been more than an intruder.

  I have to know that it's dead.

  You shot the thing four times. It has to be dead.

  She dragged herself up to her knees. The living room lamps cast an eerie orange glow to the top of the staircase that was like hellfire. She looked through the hole and gasped.

  The shape lay sprawled on its side in the bathroom with its legs extending into the hallway. It appeared to be a man, but it was too huge to be human. Eight feet tall, at least. A black cloak covered the body down to its calves. She rubbed her eyes. She swore the cloak had adjusted to the room brightness the way a chameleon adjusts to colors.

  The thing’s chest did not rise and fall—it wasn't breathing.

  Mary pushed herself to her feet, not daring to take her eyes off the shape. The smart thing to do was to make her move for the staircase, get out of the house, and drive until she found help. But she couldn't bring herself to move. The size of the man

  (It is a man, isn't it?)

  overwhelmed her with fright. If the thing moved, she was sure she would lose her sanity.

  She reached for the door knob. Her hands trembled, and the brass knob rattled in her grip.

  The shape moved.

  Just a slight movement out of the corner of her eye. She was sure of it. Mary reached into her pocket and loaded two more shells into the Remington. One shot to the head, that's all it would take to be certain. She raised the rifle and sighted the side of its head on the bathroom floor.

  The thing laughed, making a wheezing noise that sounded more animal than human.

  Suddenly the shape rose—no, it seemed to float to its feet, as though lifted by invisible strings.

  Its head towered to the ceiling. She screamed at herself to pull the trigger, but she couldn't move. The monstrous shadow stalked into the hallway, and the dim light reached its face. Its skin was a hideous crimson in the light. Two fangs jutted grotesquely out of the top of its mouth beyond its lower lip. And the eyes...oh the eyes...they glowed red and looked deep into her soul, hypnotizing.

  She fired the gun without knowing she had done so. The bullet ripped through the thing’s shoulder, but it shook the gunshot off as though it had been slapped with a fly swatter and ambled toward the bedroom door.

  Mary backed away and dropped the useless weapon. She fell against the back wall between the dresser and window. Perfume bottles toppled off the bureau and shattered on the floor.

  The hallway floorboards groaned under the monstrosity's weight. The light disappeared through the hole as the thing butted against the door, and she was plunged into absolute darkness. As the thing pulled the wrong way against the inward opening door, the molding splintered and broke into pieces. The door flew off its hinges. The monster stalked into the bedroom.

  If she was going to die, at least she could choose her own terms.

  Jump out a two-story window, or be slaughtered in a nightmare?

  She lifted the windowpane.

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw the cross on the wall. The symbol seemed to emit a faint glow. Otherwise, she may not have noticed it at all. She snatched the cross off the wall without thinking about what she was doing and noticed that it felt warm in her hand.

  The bedroom floor creaked behind her. She was out of time.

  She held the cross to her chest, not daring to turn around and face the horror. Her lips started quivering again. Her whispers were soundless at first, and then she was muttering aloud. It wasn't until several seconds had passed that she realized she was reciting The Our Father.

  She could feel the thing’s breath on her neck, frigid and evocative of rotten meat. It hissed above her.

  Our Father, Who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name...

  Her body heated with conviction, and the chant grew louder.

  ...forgive us our trespasses...

  Her trembling ceased. The floorboards creaked as it took a step backward.

  ...lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from EVIL!

  She shouted the last word and turned to face the beast.

  Mary held the cross at arm’s length in front of her, her fortitude driven by a voice deep inside her— a comforting voice that she did not recognize yet was strangely familiar. She repeated the prayer, her voice booming through the room with a force she couldn't fathom.

  The monstrosity backed through the doorway and disappeared down the staircase. Its footfalls made muffled explosions on the steps.

  She heard the front door being ripped from its hinges and then nothing but silence and the sound of her prayer.

  Mary dropped to her knees and cried.

  Seven

  Benny was sound asleep on the couch with a knitted blanket drawn to his neck when the truck lights swept across the living room window. Evan got up from the kitchen table at the low rumble of the motor.

  Randy, who had been seated at the kitchen table, dumbly tearing a napkin into pieces, heard the motor, too. He reacted like a caged animal, as if he were certain the vehicle was Greg Madsen's police truck.

  How they could have found my parents' bodies so soon.

  His pulse thumped in his head, throbbing and pounding until there were black spots in his vision. There was still time. He could slip out a back-room window and be gone before anyone noticed. He could make a run for it and—

  Benny. I can’t leave him.

  But the voice that carried from outside the house was not the police chief's. It was an older man’s—Rory Dickson, he realized. His pulse eased, but he knew the danger wasn’t over yet. Dickson was Madsen's right hand man.

  Would Madsen send Dickson in his place?

  Evan recognized the burly man stepping from the truck. The two weren't acquainted, but he knew him by name.

  “Evening,” Rory said.

  He shook Evan's hand at the front of the driveway.

  “Mr. Dickson.”

  “None of that Mr. Dickson crap, please. Makes me feel old. Just Rory.”

  “What can I do for you, Rory?”

  “Checkin’ to see how you folks made out tonight. Anyone hurt? Any damage?”

  “Randy Marks' little brother got scraped up near the library. Just some bumps and bruises. He's inside resting right now. I’m trying to figure out how to get him home, but it sounds like the west side of Jensen is impassable.”

  “Yep. The juncture of Jensen and Randolph is going to be a bitch to get to for a while. I came down from the other end onto Standish. Barely made it past the live wires. Trees down everywhere.”

  “Are the phone lines down? I can't get a tone.”

  “It's not just the lines. The whole damn exchange building went down. I wouldn't begin to guess when service will be back.”

  “I have to do something. I can't just let his parents think he is hurt or worse out in that mess.”

  Rory scratched his head.

  “Talkies. I got one in the car from Greg Madsen. Which reminds me, I got one for you too.”

  “Me?”

  “Madsen has me gathering up folks who he thinks he can trust to help get the town under control. People who can keep their cool.”

  “Well, I don't know what qualifications I have for a situation like this, but I'll help any way I can.”

  “Oh, you'll do just fine, Mr. Moran.”

  “Evan, please. Mr. Moran makes me feel old, too.”

  Rory leaned back, l
aughed, and clapped Evan on the shoulder.

  “Evan it is, then. Why don't you tend to the Marks' boy while I radio the police station? See if they can't get a cruiser close enough to his house to get word to his parents.”

  “Give me a minute to get changed, and I'll be right out.”

  “I'll be here.”

  Evan started for the door and stopped when he noticed headlights moving east on Standish. The lights drifted from side to side like an amusement park bumper car ride.

  “Jesus,” Rory said, turning to watch the car.

  As the car careened erratically across Standish, it swept into the oncoming lane and barely escaped skidding into the culvert. The driver righted the car and slowed at the sight of the Moran barn. The car stopped, as though the driver was considering where to go next. It started to inch forward and then swung left into the farmhouse driveway.

  The two men shielded their eyes from the high beams as the car came to a stop. Evan wondered if the driver was a child or a drunk, the way the car had careened across the road. He was more surprised when Mary Giovanni stumbled out of the car, whey-faced and confused. Her eyes were wide with a faraway look that seemed to travel past them.

  “Mary?” Evan whispered.

  The two men shared a bewildered look as they approached her. When her knees buckled, they grabbed her by the shoulders and draped her arms over their necks to keep her upright.

  “Let's get her inside,” Rory said.

  Rory and Evan eased Mary up the steps. Renee opened the door for them, watching Mary with unease.

  “Randy, take Benny into my bedroom,” Evan said.

  Randy picked his brother off the couch, and Rory and Evan laid Mary in the boy's place.

  “What's wrong with her? She looks like she is in shock,” Renee said.

  Mary's breathing was shallow and quick. Her eyes were distant and glassy, as though covered by strips of plastic wrap.

  “Don't know,” Evan said. “Cover her with a blanket.”

  “Mary, it’s Renee Tennant. Can you hear me?”

  Mary nodded vacantly.

  “You're safe now, Miss Giovanni,” Rory said. “You just rest some.”

  “Maybe we should give her some water,” Renee said.