He pulled out his chair, sat, and sidled back to the desk. He switched on his desk lamp, an antique banker’s lamp that did little to illuminate the room with its dark-mahogany walls and volume-laden bookshelves, but it did create a comfortable, subdued sphere in which he could work. It also made the reflection of the window behind him visible in his wineglass, which would have remained unnoticed if not for the movement of something outside the window.
Brandon turned in his chair and peered into the night where, beyond the porch railing, soft walkway lighting exposed a fine cobblestone pathway that led to a driveway of the same construct. Remaining in his seat, he wheeled forward to get a closer look out at his property, just in time to catch the shaking of the shrubs to the left of his window.
Likely a cat or a skunk, he figured, yet he rose and secured the door locks throughout the house to lessen the unease he was feeling. He returned to his office and sat back down, his attention returning to the window’s reflection on his wineglass. Thankfully, nothing moved outside the window. He tapped the touch pad to wake the computer and then typed his password, bringing up the Word file with the sermon on which he was currently working. He read his words and was pleased to fall quickly back into the rhythm of his teaching. He added a few paragraphs he hoped were eloquent enough to inspire, and that held truths profound enough to spark epiphanies.
A little more than an hour later, feeling content with his work, Brandon toggled the Save icon and took the final swallow from the wineglass. Recalling the earlier movement, he casually glanced at the window, and what he saw there was inexplicable, yet ignited a surge of fear throughout him so intense he could only sit and stare, at first.
A thick and yellowish substance coated the majority of the top and bottom portions of the double-paned window. It appeared gelatinous and wet and the descriptive that first came to Brandon’s mind was snot. Its edges quivered and appeared to fold into the central thickness of the matter, undulating with slurping sounds as it slowly moved upward on the window. As a whole, its movements were hypnotic. Standing slowly, Brandon moved a little closer and watched as wet pustules erupted were the gummy mass touched the glass, forming into gaping cavities that trembled and suctioned onto the surface as it climbed, causing the window to creak with stress under the weight of it. Moist popping noises accompanied the release of each orifice like the snap of quick kisses, moving with a liquid flux to wherever it was heading.
Brandon leaned forward, peering into the curious depths of one of the grotesque maws when what looked like a black, metallic honeycomb, hexagon-shaped and about three inches in diameter, emerged from the crater and pressed against the glass. Though he had never witnessed anything even remotely like it before, Brandon felt it was an eye of some form and that it was looking at him. Panic and revulsion drove an all-encompassing shudder throughout him as he acknowledged the truth that the horrific object on his window was alive, and that it was looking at him spoke of some type of intelligence, which made it all the more ghastly.
There was a depth to its honeycomb eye that was oddly seductive and he felt as if it was trying to draw him in. He backed away slowly, trying to make sense of it. No creature that he knew of was even remotely similar, except maybe a jellyfish, but those didn’t bubble and boil or survive out of salt water.
How big is this one? It appeared it hadn’t covered the window entirely, but was that just a fraction or an iota of the whole . . . thing? Host?
Are there more? he wondered.
Had the human race finally become so corrupt that God opened the gates of hell, releasing these hideous obscenities?
Is Cooper safe? The thought came out of the blue and rattled him deeply.
“Sweet Lord, I beg of you, keep Cooper safe,” he said aloud, but a voice inside of him replied, That’s your job.
Brandon forced himself to look away from the revolting mass, rushed into the kitchen, and was relieved to see nothing obstructed those windows. He chanced a look outside to confirm that the yard wasn’t swarming with them or that hordes weren’t falling from the inky, moonless skies.
What could he use for a weapon? Could it be stabbed or sliced, or would it simply ooze around the blade, unharmed? Considering the amorphous consistency of the creature, it seemed knives would be useless, and guns—as if he’d even have a gun—were one of those conservative views he disagreed with.
He continued staring out the window and calmed himself. For his entire life he had believed in the supernatural qualities of a Christian God, and for that matter, Satan, but never had he considered anything beyond that. The plain truth and irony was that despite his beliefs, he’d never witnessed anything even slightly extraordinary in a supernatural bent . . . or even miraculous. He’d heard plenty claim such things, but he’d sincerely thought most of them were whacks and quacks, or opportunists. If someone were to have relayed what Brandon had just witnessed on his office window, he’d have labeled him or her as well.
The more he thought about it, the more at ease he became. There had to be a logical explanation, but just in case, he’d check on Cooper.
A walk by his office offered a window with a clear view of the lighted yard; no booger monster with a honeycomb eye, and although he considered it, he didn’t look closer for slime tracks on the glass. Got to have faith, he reasoned.
As Brandon had hoped, Cooper was sleeping, but evidently restless. He was now lying reversed with his head near to the footboard. The SpongeBob night-light was now aglow with six-watt splendor, and Kevin the minion had found his way into Cooper’s arms.
FLUMP!
The sound was muted, not distinct, yet startled Cooper, who sprung into a sitting position, looking frantically around the room. It had come from the first floor, in the direction of the front of the house, sounding as if something hit the floor, as his father used to say, like a sack of wet shit.
Or a two-hundred-pound jellyfish, Brandon thought.
“It’s okay, Bub. It’s nothing,” he quietly said to his son, the lie sounding feeble to his own ears. The look in Cooper’s eyes said he wasn’t convinced, either.
He was certain that whatever had created the impact was the same thing that had adhered itself to his office window, but he was torn as what to do. Should he confront the vile thing, which he knew nothing about, or should he grab his son and run blindly into the night in the hope of escape? Instead, he repositioned Cooper correctly in the bed and said, “Go back to sleep, son.”
The most important thing was to keep his son safe at all cost, and at the moment. He’d have to assess the situation. Maybe the thing was harmless, but maybe . . . What was that Sun Tzu quote? “If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear” . . . something like that.
He gently shut Cooper’s door and returned downstairs to find where the sound had come from. There was only a short hallway that ran from the base of the stairway to the front of the house, so it didn’t leave many possibilities. He looked through the front-door window onto a screen-lined, three-season veranda that separated the farmer’s porch from the entryway into the foyer, in which he stood. To the left of the porch, the gentle glow of the outdoor lighting made it just bright enough to settle everything in obscure shadow. He neither saw nor heard anything out of the ordinary, so he switched on the porch lights. Nothing reacted to the sudden flare that, although not considerably bright, seemed dazzling to Brandon until his eyes adjusted.
After a small eternity, Brandon unlocked the front door and stepped into the confines of the screened veranda. He looked on to the front lawn, which had relinquished into darkness outside the reaches of the porch lights. He reached inside the doorway and flicked the lights off, which returned the yard to its previous ambient glow and made visible the long ropes of viscous slime that trailed along the farmer’s porch and disappeared around the corner. Brandon’s office window was located around that same corner, but what concerned him most was that Co
oper’s window was directly above it, although whatever that hellish creature was, it would have to traverse the underside of the porch roof to get to Cooper’s window.
But it can climb! He had witnessed that through his office window.
And what had fallen and made that sound?
Brandon approached the screened wall and tried to peer around the corner without leaving the enclosure of the three-season veranda. He was met by the slurping, squishing sound of the creature’s movements, and he became aware of a briny odor with the underlying hint of sulfur that was pushed towards him by a mild breeze. It reminded him of the salt marshes of Cape Cod, where his family vacationed in his childhood. It was not entirely unpleasant, but a foreign smell for Adelphi, Maryland.
With a shaking hand, he fumbled at the screen-door lock until it hooked into the eyelet, and then he backed away just as a putrescent yellow flap of the gelatinous substance breached the corner of the house like a huge infected tongue and sloshed onto the screened wall. It paused as if in contemplation, and then the black honeycomb emerged from within the ghastly organism and pressed to the screen. Sensing the strange, mesmerizing magnetism he had felt earlier, Brandon feared if he didn’t look immediately away, he never would.
A hissing, not unlike the sound of sizzling meat in a frying pan, started emanating from the entity and it instantly traversed to the inside of the enclosed porch, still latched onto the screen and still intact. It had somehow sieved through the screen’s mesh unharmed.
“What the fuck?” Brandon blurted, shocked by his own use of the expletive. One that would have surely raised a few eyebrows in his congregation, yet one so correct for the situation he said it again, “What-the-ever-loving-fuck?”
FLUMP!
It fell to the porch floor like a pus-filled balloon, hitting and spreading out, splattering against the walls and oozing between the decking. Brandon’s gorge rose, yet he could only watch, morbidly fascinated, as it started to gather itself, pooling together, except the three extended splashes nearest him, which merged to form a smooth proboscis that thickened and elongated in his direction, reaching for him. Brandon backed away, but the creature compensated by sending more mass into its reaching tentacle.
Don’t let it touch me! Brandon didn’t know what would happen if it did, but it seemed intent and he felt it was imperative that it not touch him, not even the slightest brush.
Would it steal his soul, farm his blood, or just melt him into its next meal? He backed into the house, slammed the door, and twisted the deadbolt lock. Wildly contemplating his next move—if he even had one—he backstepped to the foot of the stairs.
What do I do now? he wondered. How would he protect them from this thing . . . this profanity that could flow unfazed through a screen like water? He looked up the stairway towards Cooper’s bedroom, and then the cell phone in his pants pocket vibrated and rang simultaneously.
“Fuck!”
Third F-bomb in less than five minutes. Appropriate, he reminded himself and pulled the phone from his pocket to see his wife’s pretty, smiling face on the screen.
“Hello?” he answered in a hushed voice, his heart slamming.
“Hi, baby! How’s it going?” Her voice so normal it nearly brought him to tears.
Should I say anything? Should I have her call the cops . . . the National Guard? No, I could do that. What could she possibly do, except worry?
“Good, good,” he said, forcing a cheerful but tentative voice. Now I’m lying, but it’s a good lie, a compassionate lie, he reasoned.
He heard movement at the door and then the door lever quivered ever so slightly.
“Are you okay? You sound out of breath,” said Sylvia, ever observant.
“I’m fine. Just doing some chores.”
“Chores at ten thirty at night?”
“Yeah. Wide awake and Cooper’s asleep, so I figured . . . ” Brandon stopped talking when he saw a thin phlegmy strand had started seeping through the keyhole of the old door. The skeleton keys were long gone, but the locks remained, long unemployed, until now. “Uh . . . ” he said.
“How’s our little guy?” Sylvia asked. “Was he very upset that I wasn’t there for his birthday?”
“He’s . . . good . . . uh, honey? Listen. Can I call you right back? I left the door, the cellar door open, and I don’t want anything getting in.”
The pool of slime in front of the door was now a foot across and quickly expanding.
“Oh, okay,” she said hesitantly. “Are you sure everything’s okay?”
“Scout’s honor,” Brandon lied again as two thin appendages grew from the mass, like feelers or antennae. “I just slapped a couple mosquitoes and I want to get ahead of it before they get really bad, okay? Love you. Call right back.”
He disconnected the call before Sylvia could reply and slipped it into his pocket. The feelers extended, twisted, coiled, and extended again, blindly searching for Brandon as he cautiously diverted away from the stairway, hoping to lure it to the kitchen and distance access to Cooper’s room. The feelers rose in unison, like twin cobras preparing to strike, and then those damned black honeycombs formed at the tip of each one, swinging and swaying back and forth, while its malignant, popping suckers gripped and released the floor as it advanced on him.
“Daddy?” Cooper called suddenly from the top of the stairs.
The heinous blob immediately stopped and its soulless honeycomb eyes turned to the sound of Cooper’s voice. Time stood still, as if all three were at an impasse, waiting for the other to make a move.
Oh shit—oh shit—oh shit! It can hear? How can it hear? It has no fucking ears!
“Daddy? What’s that noise?”
“It’s nothing, sweetie!” Brandon said, alertly watching the slimy creature’s movements. “Go back to bed. I’ll be up there in a few minutes.”
The black-tipped probes appeared intently locked in the direction of Cooper’s voice.
Now! Brandon thought, forcing his fear aside, and with two long strides, he leapt over the abomination, clearing its reaching probes by mere inches. With a celebratory whoop, Brandon landed in the hallway just outside the kitchen threshold, both feet landing squarely on the floor in a patch of slime. His feet cherry-pitted from beneath him, sending him hurtling across the floor in an involuntary backflip. He hit the bottom of the stairway with bone-jarring impact, sending a lightning bolt of pain through him by way of his elbow.
With a succession of sopping slurps and pops, the gurgling form immediately reversed direction, its probing appendages seeming to slide front to back like the barrels on a tank turret. Not stopping to assess injuries, Brandon scrambled to his feet and mounted the stairs, racing up them two at a time.
Cooper stood at the head of the stairway, watching wide-eyed, uncomprehending of what the abomination at the base of the stairs was. “What is that, Daddy?” he asked, frightened.
“Get in your room, quick!” Brandon ordered.
Cooper stood frozen as the undulating form seemed to contemplate the stairs.
“Go! Quick!”
“But . . . ”
“Go!” Brandon yelled, giving Cooper a push.
Shocked by the unfamiliar urgency of his father’s voice, Cooper darted for his room, wailing in fear. Brandon quickly glanced over his shoulder and then followed his son down the hallway, thinking that never before in his life had he seen something pour up the stairs.
Inside Cooper’s room, he slammed the door, tore the sheets from the bed, and started jamming them against the base of the door, trying to seal the opening. Cooper stood in the center of the room, mouth agape, hands clasping and unclasping as he silently wept. Anger and self-disgust swept through Brandon at his failure to keep his son safe from such trauma and ugliness.
As he worked the fabric into the gap, Cooper started a terrified, high-pitched keening. Brandon lo
oked at him and saw movement in his peripheral vision, feeling the slightest shifting in the air near his head as a tentacle swayed from the keyhole like a long, infected worm, hovering frighteningly close to Cooper’s face. Brandon sprang away from the door, landing on his back at Cooper’s feet, pulling the boy down on top of him.
Rising, Brandon tucked Cooper behind him and backed away from the searching probe. Again, a honeycomb eye formed and locked first onto Brandon, who was busy opening the bedroom window, and then refocusing on Cooper.
“Get on the porch roof and go to my bedroom window,” Brandon said, lifting Cooper to the lip of the window.
“Noooo!” Cooper cried, seeming more scared by the thought of climbing onto the roof than of the atrocity behind them.
“Cooper, listen to me! Go! I’ll meet you there.”
Brandon pushed his unwilling son through the window opening and onto the roof. He closed the window and twisted the latch, hoping the hellish beast couldn’t sprout fingers, although it wouldn’t have surprised him. He stood at the foot of the bed and watched until the last of the slime secreted from the keyhole, and waited for the slime bag to round the bed with eye-tipped appendages flailing, but it didn’t show.
Brandon leaned forward to see over the edge of the bed, when it occurred to him that it could easily move beneath the bed. He leapt onto the bed just as an infected-looking armlike extension shot from beneath it, swiping where his feet had just been. Sparing no time, Brandon bounced to the floor and raced to the doorway, halting just outside. Inside the room, the oozing obscenity ignored him and began ascending the wall towards the window.
It doesn’t give a shit about me, Brandon realized. It only wants Cooper!
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