by Brian Hodge
Slowly, her body shaking terribly, Holly staggered to her feet. Burning gasps wracked her thin chest with every breath she took. A horrible taste filled the back of her throat, making her gag. Her hands shook uncontrollably as she grasped the doorknob, preparing to slam the door shut. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew that the thin door wasn't anywhere near strong enough to stop these things, whatever they were. Their claws could rip through the wood as easily as they tore through flesh, she knew, and she—just like her daddy and the oilman and her momma—was going to be killed… ripped to pieces.
Numb with shock and terror, Holly looked around, her going mind totally blank as she tried to think of what to do next. She couldn't run outside. All she had on was her slippers, pajamas, and an old flannel bathrobe. Besides, there were several inches, maybe a foot of snow on the ground. She wouldn't get far. The nearest neighbors—Mr. And Mrs. Holland—lived more than a quarter mile away. There was no one who could save her.
But Holly was convinced that, if she went upstairs and tried to hide, the creatures would find her. She knew where her daddy kept his hunting rifle, but she had no idea where he hid the bullets. Even if the gun was loaded, she didn't know how to shoot and, besides, there were way too many of these things. She couldn't stop them all.
Tears filled her eyes, blurring her vision as she looked around the kitchen. The creatures were moving around down in the darkness of the cellar. When she glanced down the stairway, she saw numerous pairs of dully glowing eyes staring up at her. Glancing over her shoulder at the kitchen window, Holly was surprised to notice that the snow had stopped. Above the trees across the road, the sky was brightening, turning from black to a dark, sooty gray as the dawn approached.
They're afraid of the light, she thought, remembering how one of the creatures had squealed when her daddy had shined the flashlight in its face.
Would the daylight be bright enough? She wondered.
Was there enough light to keep these horrible things down in the cellar?
She wasn't aware of the whimpering sounds she made as she slammed the door shut and leaned her back against it. Clinging with both hands to the doorknob, she pressed hard against the door. From down in the cellar, she heard the stairs creak as the creatures started up after her. Their claws scraped against the wood, and the soft grunting and clicking sounds the creatures made chilled her blood.
And then the first body slammed against the door. The impact was hard enough to jolt Holly, but she gritted her teeth and held on, pressing her back flat against the door.
Will it hold? She wondered.
She remembered her daddy saying one time that one of the things he liked about this house when they bought it was that the doors were made of good, solid, old-fashioned oak doors, not the cheap kind you find in most houses.
Is this door oak?
Would it be strong enough to hold until daylight came, and the creatures would be afraid and have to return to the darkness?
Holly's tears burned her eyes as she stared out the kitchen window at the gradually brightening sky. The storm clouds were blowing away fast, now that the storm was over, and the dark gray of dawn was steadily lightening. Her heart hammered in her chest, making her neck throb. The door, no more than an inch thick, was all that separated her from the creatures with their horrible, ugly faces and their terrible claws. From the other side, she could hear the steady rasping sound as they scarped and tore into the wood.
Will it hold?
Pressure was building up on the other side. She could feel it as more and more creatures came up the stairs and pressed their weight against the door, clawing at the wood. Every now and then the doorknob jiggled in her hand, but they didn't try to force it. Holly guessed they were just dumb animals, too stupid to know how to use it. Kicking off her slippers so she could get better traction on the cold linoleum floor, she braced her shaking legs and leaned ever harder against the door as the frantic scratching sounds and the squealing from the other side got steadily louder.
Will it hold?...
Will it hold?
That thought kept pounding in her head like the steady hammering that came from the other side of the thin oak door. If she could hang on long enough, if she could just keep them down in the cellar until dawn, Holly knew she might have a chance.
She might not die.
But how soon would the sun come up now that the snowstorm had blown away, and how strong was the door?
Would it hold them back long enough so, as morning light filled the cellar, they would be forced back into their hole? Or had the snow piled up high enough so it would block out the daylight, and they would continue to beat and tear at the door until it finally gave way, and they poured into the kitchen? By then, would there be enough daylight to scare them back down into the cellar, or would they do to her what they had done to her daddy and her momma and the oilman?
Holly choked back her tears and squeezed her eyes shut so tightly they hurt as she leaned her full weight against the cellar door.
She had to hold on.
She had to be strong and keep these things from getting her.
And no matter what, she had to be brave so her daddy would be proud of her.
KISS ME LIKE YOU LOVE ME
By Wednesday Lee Friday
This book goes out to the ladies.
You know who you are.
Chapter One
(Our Narrator)
Dropped on the Head
They say if you get dropped on the head as a baby, you’ll never be right again. It used to be a joke, don’t know if it still is, but when somebody does something stupid or shocking somebody might say, “What? D’ja get dropped on the head when you were a baby?” Everyone would laugh and think it was such a stitch, except the poor guy who may or may not have had his little baby head smacked in by linoleum or parquet or whatever they make floors out of these days.
Point is, if anyone said that joke to Mikey, they’d probably get a punch in the head. Having been dropped more than once as a baby, he doesn’t find that joke funny in the slightest. Or at least he didn’t when I knew him. He might now. Mikey’s changed a lot since the days when I knew him, around the neighborhood. We were pretty tight for a while, but not so much anymore. I guess that’s why I never saw any of this coming.
Usually when you tell a story about someone, you start with their birth or maybe when you met them. In Mikey’s case, though, neither of those will work. I’ve known Mikey forever; he’s always been there. Our moms were friendly for a time when we were little. My mom thought Mikey’s mom was “a little fruity,” as she put it. That day I do remember. I was standing there in Toughskin jeans with reinforced knees, feeling as sad as I can ever remember. My Mom told me I couldn’t play at Mikey’s house anymore. Apparently Mrs. Goretti had said something terrible, something that made the whole town turn against her. She said she knew better than Pastor. Nobody knew better than Pastor Simms.
My mom said we were a good Christian family and that it would be “wrong to exclude the boy.” That meant Mikey could still come over and play at my house; I just couldn’t go over there.
Mikey, unlike his Mama, quoted Pastor at every opportunity. My mom said he was the most obedient boy she had ever met, and even said I would do well to take a page out of Mikey’s book. I didn’t really know what that meant at the time, since Mikey never had much in the way of books. I knew she didn’t mean his Bible, and as far as I knew, the Bible and schoolbooks were the only books Mikey was allowed to read. He kept those magazines, but he hid them. Later on I figured it out. My mom just wanted me to be more like Mikey and do what he did. Ha!
Mom was around for the fire, though. That was terrible. We had Fire Safety Week at Sunday school. I think I was in second grade, maybe third. Mikey didn’t go to school with everyone else, only Sunday school. They taught us about family fire drills, and the importance of smoke detectors, and how to properly call 911. They had just started 911 back then, and people didn’t
really know how to do it properly.
Mikey came back to church and said his family did practice fire drills. They had a meeting place outside, so they’d know if everyone got out of the house. He said he’d put new batteries in all the smoke detectors, and that they had a new fire extinguisher for the kitchen. Teacher gave him a gold star. I didn’t get one. My mom said that kind of planning was for hysterics afraid of their own shadows. She said if you were careful, no fires would ever happen. People used to say that a lot back then. Turned out, Mikey’s family didn’t really do anything for fire safety. Mikey made it all up.
Later there was a big commotion, with lights and police and fire trucks, outside Mikey’s house. His dad was gone by then and it was just Mikey and his mom and sister. Jeanette was three years older than Mikey, and sometimes acted more like a mom than a sister. She was in her bathrobe with her hair wrapped up in a towel when the fire happened, and everybody ran outside to see what was going on. Jeanette was really embarrassed and didn’t want anyone seeing what she called her nudity. She was far from naked in her long bathrobe, but if you looked really close you could see part of a boob.
Mikey ran through the house screaming, “FIRE! FIRE!” and making sure his mom and sister were safe. Nobody asked him how he knew about the fire, or how he had learned to spray the base of the fire with the extinguisher, or why he didn’t call 911.
I asked him if he’d set the fire. He said no. But he never explained what had happened to the lighter I kept by my fireworks. He said my mom must have found them. But if she had, she’d have taken everything and not just the lighter. Mikey had to have stolen it.
I never told anyone about Mikey starting that fire. Somehow I thought I’d be in as big of trouble as he’d have been. Besides, a guy doesn’t rat on his best friend, especially if no one got hurt. And that time no one did get hurt. Now I know I was setting myself up for a pattern of apathy that would lead to—I’m getting ahead of myself. Point is, I should have done something about Mikey years ago. I didn’t. Now I have to put it right.
Chapter Two
(Mikey)
A Terrible Task
My new friend from the movie theatre screamed an awful lot on the ride up here. Truthfully, I’d be glad to be rid of her. She yelled and cried about everything, every nice thing I said, every funny joke I made. Even when I asked how she liked the burgers and ice cream I bought her, she screamed like I was murdering her. What kind of kid doesn’t like cheeseburgers? I love them; always have.
Of course I didn’t want to kill her. I never want to. It’s sad. But that’s no reason for her to mess everything up, with her screeching and crying and carrying on, when nothing was even happening yet. I went to a lot of trouble to make today nice.
I went to a lot of those Barnaby movies … Teal and Tammy Barnaby, the twins. They were so pretty and they did all those fun movies in exotic locales. London, Paris, Hollywood … those twins got to go everywhere and have all kinds of fun adventures. That’s where I met my new friend. She was all alone in the theatre; said her mom was going to pick her up later. Can you imagine leaving a tasty young girl like this all alone in a dark movie house? Mama certainly wouldn’t have let me go to the movies alone at that age. There was no telling what kind of pervert a kid could run into. At least I wasn’t after little boys, like some of those faggot-ass nut jobs out there. I may not have obeyed every commandment, but I knew enough not to be a homo.
This time, Teal and Tammy were in Malibu trying to meet their favorite actor, who was only in town for spring break. They ran all over the place in bikinis and sundresses and spaghetti straps and no bras. It was a fun movie for families, and in fact, the audience was mostly moms and weekend dads, with little kids clutching festive bags of popcorn, tiny mittens clipped to puffy winter coats.
I love to watch movies with those twins. Such beautiful girls. It’ll be sad to see them get all old and ugly and wrinkled and gross. I hope they don’t live long enough for that to happen. Fame can kill people pretty early, sometimes. Then they’ll be forever young to me, just like this one I’ve got right here. She’ll never age another day.
“The nice thing about this house,” I tell her, while I secure her straps to the dining table, “is that you can scream bloody murder and no one will hear.” Her eyes get all wide and scared when I say that, so I tell her it’s just an expression.
It’s not as if I enjoy killing them. But if they’re not going to even try to like me, I can’t let them go. If one—just one of them—would be sweet and quiet and do what I told them, none of this choking and cutting and whatnot would be necessary. And I really wish it weren’t. I don’t really have the temperament for it.
She’s squirming on the table. I don’t know if she knows I tied her to a board so I could move her around. She looks really scared and I almost want to knock her out, to stop her from being so upset. I want to at least give her a chance. It’s the middle of winter, but she’s sweaty and bleeding a little. I’m not sure what happened to make her bleed, but I take a wet cloth from the bathroom and wipe her face with it.
“There, there, young miss. That feel better?” And, suddenly, she won’t look at me. I start to see the Red when the girls won’t look at me. I used to think seeing Red was just an expression. Turns out, when women are trying really hard to make you mad, they release a chemical that makes the Red come over you. “You little bitch! You’re not going anywhere, so you might as well get used to the idea of looking at me. What am I, so ugly you can’t even look at me? LOOK AT ME!”
Her eyes snap to attention and fix themselves on my face. I knew they would. Sometimes it takes a little louding to get these girls’ attention. Mama always called it that—louding. Got my point across okay. The girl is looking at me, finally, and I figure it’s time.
She’s wearing a corduroy shirt that buttons up the front. She squirms harder with each button I undo, but I know she’s not going anywhere. The poor girl is tied up too tight. I have to cut her flowered jeans off, and I’m worried that she’ll pee herself and ruin everything. They do that, sometimes, I guess out of fear.
I leave her bra and panties on; I like to reach in and around instead of having them all lewd and naked. I think it drives them crazy to feel my hands outside their clothes, knowing I could reach in any second I want to and give them a thrill they’ll remember always. I slide the board across the table and swing it around until her sweet little face is next to me. I lean down, smoothing her pretty blonde hair back as I whisper to her.
“Kiss me, little one.” She shakes her head violently. “Kiss me like you love me, and then I’ll let you go.” My hands are sliding up and down her torso. She must love it; she must love me. She must, by now. But she’s resisting. I won’t have it. I can’t. Resisting after all the trouble I’ve gone through to make this moment perfect? All alone in a big, beautiful house, safe and warm when it’s so very cold outside. A romantic fire in the fireplace, and all she can do is complain and cry and shake her head like she doesn’t even care.
I kiss her anyway, because I can. She holds her mouth shut really tight, which I have to admit is very cute. But when I stop kissing her, she spits in my face. For a second, I’m so mad I can’t even see straight. She’s doing it; the Red is coming. I’m squeezing something, and it might be the girl. So much Red. I can’t see anything. Somewhere far away I feel her stiffen under me and stop moving. When the Red subsides, my hands are around her tiny throat. She’s not crying or spitting or squirming anymore. She’s still very pretty though.
Chapter Three
(Our Narrator)
Detective Mags
Mikey’s favorite things in the world, for a while anyway, were these detective mags. He loved them, and had piles and stacks of them stashed all over his room. He hid them from his mom and sister like a filthy secret, which to them I’m sure they were. If you didn’t read them, you might think there was something dirty going on in them. The covers always had pictures of beautiful, tied-up women with knive
s or guns pointed at them. They were scary, I remember, but also sexy in a weird way. When we were in high school, he carried one wherever he went. That was about the time he started going off by himself a lot. I knew he was … um … yanking his chain. But I never said anything to him about it, even when he was leaving class to do it. Some things a guy just doesn’t say to another guy, you know?
Mikey also spent a lot of money on them, or so he said. His mom never gave him any money, so it was hard to know if he was telling the truth. After a while, though, Mister Bendrick didn’t want him coming into his store anymore. Mikey never said why.
He read those detective magazines all the time, cool stories about private eyes and crooked cops and murder mysteries. I had to admit they were pretty good stories, but Mikey used to get kind of carried away. He was always getting carried away with one thing or another.
One time he tried to tie his sister to a chair, just like in the magazines. She was just out of the shower and wearing her long flannel robe again, the one where you could see boob. Jeanette kicked his ass though, blackening his eye in the process. Everyone found out about it too, that Mikey’s sister beat him up. The kids teased him about it mercilessly—everyone but me, that is. I always tried to give Mikey a break.