The Big Bad II

by John G. Hartness

  Beau wrapped his arms around himself. All six-foot-four, two hundred eighty pounds of him was afraid of this empty room, of this empty husk of metal, for no good reason. The house didn’t want him. It had never wanted him. If it had, well, it had had the chance. He stepped around the boiler. Bev stared at it, eyes fixed on the aged machine, standing perfectly centered under a bare bulb, so she cast no shadow.

  “You okay, Bev?” Beau reached for her, but froze before touching her arm.

  The woman tilted her head this way and that, as if cracking her neck. She turned her head slowly, deliberately, until her gaze met his. “It’s been a long time, Beau.” A harsh, crackling voice, raspy and withered with age and disuse.

  Beau jerked back against the basement wall, his hands outstretched as if to ward her off.

  But she didn’t move. “When was the last time you were down here?”

  Beau shook his head. No nononono! But he couldn’t make his mouth work. He shoved himself back harder against the wall, splaying his arms out. Behind her were the stairs to the door, to the first floor, to the outside.

  “I asked you a question,” the voice said, anger rising, even in the feminine tone. “Don’t make me call the boy.”

  “Seventy-six,” Beau spat out. “Ninteeen seventy-six. With LJ and Lizabeth.”

  For a moment, Bev’s face seemed to be her own again, seemed sad. “I miss Laura Jean,” she said. “Does she still love me?”

  “Yes!” Beau declared. “She does. We all do. See?” He pointed at Bev. “See what we brought you? What LJ brought you?”

  For the first time the voice seemed aware of the body it occupied. It looked down, studying itself, and back up again. “Almost forty years, Beau,” it said. “Lizabeth misses you, too. For almost forty years.”

  “I know.” He shook, fear tightening his muscles. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

  “It will be Christmas soon.” She smiled. “Time for feasts and presents.”

  Beau nodded, sure he was going to throw up.

  Bev blinked and shook her head. She stumbled back a few steps.

  Beau leaped forward and grabbed her arm, steadying her. “You okay, Bev?” he managed, his own voice high and shaky.

  She kept blinking and rubbed her forehead. “Yeah. I feel dizzy.” She stepped out of the pool of light and Beau helped her to the stairs.

  “We should get you upstairs,” Beau stammered, shoving a hand through his bangs, pulling hair loose from his ponytail.

  By the time they made it to the soft light of the living room, Bev seemed fine. She drew a deep breath and let out a laugh. “Well, that was embarrassing.”

  “Naw.” Beau shook his head. “If you haven’t been down there much, if at all, there’s a lot of dust, and maybe some mold. It’s easy to get lightheaded.” He held out his hand. “I’ve got to get going, but you let me know if you need any help around here.”

  “You got it.” Bev shook his hand. “But I think you’re right about the boiler. I think there’s no way of getting rid of it.”

  “Nope, probably not.”

  Beau managed to let Bev lead him to the door, rather than shoving her out of the way and sprinting out of the house. He trotted down the front steps and across the lawn, forcing himself to take even, measured steps. He shoved his arms through his jacket sleeves and swung himself onto his bike. He was about to slip on his helmet when he caught a glimpse of himself in his side mirror. Sweat beaded on his forehead.

  He looked back at the house. From the left turret, Sammy waved from the window. He waved, slammed his helmet on his head, jerked his bike to life, and sped from the house.

  ***

  Christmas Eve 2013

  Laura Jean arrived first, at eleven-thirty, impatient. A light frost had settled on the grass, crunching underfoot. The half moon shone bright enough in the clear sky to light their way.

  Beau and Henry showed up together. Beau must have left his motorcycle at the old man’s house to avoid the engine noise waking the family. Becca came last, shivering in the cold, even under the heavy sweater, eyes hollow, hands trembling. Such a timid, waifish girl. The slip of a thing eased herself between Beau and Henry, like they could protect her. How had she ever gotten away from the house? Had it let her go? Rejected her? It must have. Laura Jean had never been able to get the girl to talk about it.

  Without a word, they climbed the small slope and stood at the edge of the property, staring up at the house. Christmas lights, all white in imitation of sparkling snow, twinkled along all the eaves. In each window, a faux candle glowed. Bev had even dared climb on the roof, where a plastic Santa waved from his sled while his reindeer pawed at the shingles. In the front window, a Christmas tree, topped with an angel, glittered.

  “I can’t do this,” Becca wailed in a whisper. “Lily’s my friend.” She shook her head, her body shaking like a fit had taken her. “I can’t let that—”

  “Hush!” Laura Jean snapped. The girl lapsed into silence and tears tumbled down her cheeks. “You want it to eat you? Your family? Like it did to Melody?” Laura Jean snapped.

  “No,” Becca wailed again, her hand instinctively clutching at the scar on her collarbone, though the sweater covered it.

  “Back off, LJ,” Beau said. “She’s just a kid.” He nodded at Henry. “Take her and start closing the storm windows so they can’t get out of the house.”

  Henry nodded and led the girl away toward the back.

  When they were out of earshot, Laura Jean scowled at him. “Aren’t you the white knight?”

  “Shut up,” he said. “Get your keys out and get ready.” After a few minutes, Henry and Becca made their way around the perimeter of the house, shutting and locking the storm windows on the lower floors, bolting them and ensuring that Sammy, Lily, and Bev couldn’t escape.

  “Go on home,” Beau said to Henry and Becca when they got back to him. “You’ve done all you need to do.”

  “I didn’t say they were done.” Laura Jean stepped in front of them, blocking their path.

  Henry took Becca’s hand. “We’re done, Laura Jean,” he said and led the girl away.

  Beau caught Laura Jean’s arm. “Come on,” he said. “It’s almost midnight.”

  She sneered at him but said nothing, pulling her arm free and heading for the porch. She eased her key into the lock and popped open the screen door. She unlocked the front door too, and stepped inside. “Make sure you slide home the screen door’s bolt.”

  Beau didn’t follow her. “I know,” he said with a sigh. Beau shut the screen, sliding the heavy bolt into place. The house itself could burn down and that heavy door would probably still be standing, locked.

  “Now, go on home, like the other cowards. I’ll call you tomorrow.” She smirked as he winced at her words.

  “You enjoy this too much.” He didn’t wait for an answer, but turned and disappeared off the porch.

  She closed the front door and locked it behind her.

  Inside, Laura Jean’s eyes adjusted to the dim light cast by the Christmas tree. At first, nothing seemed out of place. But the house breathed. Steady, gentle, the easy in-and-out of a massive beast crouching in silence, about to strike.

  She drifted over to the outer wall, and laid her hand on it. Warm to the touch, it pulsed, rose and fell in time with the sound around her.

  The clock in the hall struck twelve.

  “Hello, Laura Jean.”

  She spun to face the sound. By the Christmas tree stood Lizabeth.

  “Hi Lizzy,” she said. “That’s a pretty tree.”

  The girl wrinkled her nose. “It’s okay. I’ve looked in all the packages. It’s all stupid stuff. Boxes of boxes for Sammy,” she said, “and a small box with another small box with buttons for Lily. I don’t like any of it.”

  Laura Jean laughed. “It’s just new toys for n
ew kids. I’m sure they’ll like playing with you.”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “What the hell are you doing in my house?” Bev shouted, darting down the stairs, baseball bat poised, ready to swing.

  Laura Jean held up her hands.

  “And who is this girl?” She jerked her head at Lizabeth.

  “She sees me!” Lizabeth clapped her hands. Christmas Blessings. The one day when everyone saw Lizabeth was real.

  The walls trembled, a deep rumbling boiling up from the basement. The rumble grew to a roar, rattling the walls until Bev dropped her bat, sending it tumbling into the room, and covered her ears.

  Laura Jean waved her hands in the air. “I brought them.”

  Sammy and Lily ran down the stairs, crying for their mother, and Bev caught them, pulling them into a huddle.

  The walls rolled and pitched, the belly of a great beast, shimmering and slick with seeping ooze.

  “Take them!” Laura Jean screamed. She charged at Bev.

  Bev jerked to her feet and shoved her children behind her.

  Lily backed into the wall and wailed as the dripping muck caught her and, acid-like, tore through her clothes, eating at her flesh. She cried out, reaching for her mother. Bev caught her daughter’s hand and tried to free her, but the girl only screamed louder as the walls held her fast. Her mother’s tugs severed flesh and muscle from bone.

  Blood poured down as the wall formed teeth, tearing at her daughter’s flesh. A gaping mouth snapped closed around her daughter’s body like a Venus fly trap around a fly, leaving Lily to reach out, screaming.

  Sammy darted forward, taking up his mother’s bat, and swung at the thing, the impact splattering the acid at him. Strike after strike did nothing as his sister melted away, blood slipping down the walls, until only the crunching of bones remained. He charged at the gaping mouth.

  “No!” Bev grabbed him and hauled him to the center of the room. She fell, pulling her son down atop her, in front of the fireplace, oblivious to her own wails. Cradling him as he struggled to get away, to fight, she begged him, “No, no. Don’t go, you can’t. Not you, too.”

  Laura Jean cackled. “See?” she demanded, spinning around in the center of the room, shouting at the ceiling, “See what I brought you? You have the girl! Take the others.”

  Crack! The baseball bat hit Laura Jean in the back, sending her sprawling forward into the basement door and collapsing into a heap.

  “Stay behind me,” Bev commanded her son.

  Laura Jean rolled over, spasms of pain racking her body. The woman, the mother, raised her bat high again. No one had fought before. The house walls jerked and spasmed around them. She forced herself onto her hands and knees.

  “No you don’t!” Bev snapped and slammed her foot into Laura Jean’s stomach.

  She gagged and gasped. “But...”

  “You tell me what in hell’s name this is!” the woman screamed. “Why my family?”

  Laura Jean crawled toward her. Behind Bev, Lizabeth stood by the Christmas tree, a child’s wicked grin on her face.

  “Why, goddammit?” Bev kicked her again.

  Laura Jean rolled over. In the ceiling, the slit eyes of the house itself glared down at her. That night over forty years ago, when she shoved Lizabeth at the walls and ran up the stairs, dragging Beau with her, to the attic and out on the roof, she’d seen the eyes.

  Pain exploded through Laura Jean’s leg as Bev brought the bat down on her knee. “Talk to me!”

  She laughed as the eyes stopped staring at her and turned instead to Bev. “It has to eat,” she said, between gasps. “Or it will eat the town. Four of us survived it. Beau was here with me. Becca got away. It took Henry’s wife.”

  “So you fed it my family,” she said. “Where is it?”

  Laura Jean shook her head. The pain ran through her leg, her back, her gut. She blinked as tears blurred her vision. The eyes were full of admiration now, the way they’d looked at her and when the house let loose the latch on the attic window.

  “Mom!” Sammy screamed.

  Lizabeth had hold of him.

  Bev didn’t hesitate. She swung the bat full force at the little girl’s head, knocking the child to the floor. She picked her up and flung her at the wall, where her own Lily had been destroyed. The house roared and feasted again.

  Laura Jean gasped and choked as Bev stepped on her throat and demanded, “How do I stop it?”

  “You don’t.” She clutched at Bev’s leg.

  “Where is it?”

  Laura Jean shook her head.

  “Mom,” Sammy said, tugging on her arm. “It’s the house.” He pointed at the ceiling.

  Bev looked up into the eyes of the monster. Laura Jean clutched at Bev, scratched her, smacked her, but she never budged.

  “Open the basement door, Sammy.”

  A click and a creak told Laura Jean that it was done.

  “Grab her feet.”

  The pain barely registered as Laura Jean tumbled down the stairs and hit the boiler, the beating heart searing her skin in a white-hot blaze.

  ***

  Labor Day 2014

  Beau kicked a little of the freshly turned dirt out of his way. “Keep it steady,” he said to Sammy, as he readied his sledgehammer.

  “I’ve got it,” Sammy said as he held the new signpost.

  Beau tapped it, taking care not to damage the pretty white wood.

  When the sign was all set, they stepped back into the road to admire his work: Hunter Bed and Breakfast.

  “You really think this will work?” Beau asked.

  Bev slid an arm around his waist and kissed him on the cheek. He’d at least stopped pulling away when she did it, though he still winced. But if this was going to work, they needed the happy family—for the brochures, for the customers. “I’m positive. The website’s up and running, and we’ve gotten some inquiries.” She picked up the Vacancy placard and slid it in the groove on top of the sign. “With Henry’s pies and our killer Christmas package, I think our house will be just fine.”

  Beau didn’t laugh at her joke. He focused on Sammy, who’d run toward the house, stopping halfway.

  “Unless you don’t want to be a part of it?” Bev asked.

  He shuddered. “Of course I do.” The house called to him at night, in his dreams. He woke once halfway to the house, his motorcycle purring beneath him, and almost crashed. Since he’d started helping Bev, the dreams had stopped.

  “Good.” Bev caught up to Sammy and wrapped her arms around him, pulling him close to her body. She kissed the top of his head. “We’ll be fine, right? Besides, we could never abandon Lily.”

  “Right,” the kid said, voice soft. He waved at the house.

  In the left turret window, Lily waved back.

  Sticks and Stones

  Bobby Nash

  Tommy Greenway never thought of himself as the bad guy.

  Why should he? After all, it wasn’t like what he did ever hurt anyone. Sure, he took things that didn’t belong to him, but that’s why they invented insurance, wasn’t it? He was probably doing homeowners a favor by stealing the five-year old TV out of their living room and the computer out of the study. Let those good neighbor assholes from the TV commercials fork out a few bucks back to them so they could upgrade to the newest model. He had convinced himself that he was more than a simple thief.

  Sure, it was a pain for them to deal with at first, but Tommy knew deep down that he was performing a public service. Not only did the owners get new stuff, but he was creating work for the cops to do so they could get out there and actually earn their paychecks.

  This rationale, and others just like it, filtered through his mind every time he felt the need to feel better about his choice of career. Career petty criminal wasn’t something that looked goo
d on a resume—not that he’d ever had reason to write one of those—but it kept a handful of cash in his pocket and kept him free to live life on his own terms.

  Tommy had been watching this place on the Upper East Side for a few weeks now. He found it on a lark after picking the pocket of the guy who owned the place. Turned out that, despite his age, he was some big shot corporate VIP in the financial world. He was only a few years older than Tommy, but their lives could not have been any more different. Tommy slept wherever he could find space, whereas this guy, this Mason Perry, slept on silk sheets, usually with a different beautiful woman next to him.

  Tommy wasn’t jealous—okay, maybe just a little.

  Mason Perry had the life Tommy had always wanted. Not in terms of work, because he could never see himself sitting in an office day in and day out while wearing a suit and tie. The money, the prestige, and the respect, on the other hand, and the women, definitely the women, these were things that Tommy Greenway believed belonged to him.

  For that reason alone, he hated Mason Perry.

  That animosity moved the financial whiz kid to the top of Tommy’s hit list. He wanted the man’s life, so he was going to take it, piece by piece, starting with his stuff.

  Tommy watched from a rooftop across the street from his target’s place. Perry’s apartment had tall windows ringing it, which made keeping an eye on the man rather easy, all things considered. It was like he was announcing to the world that he was rich and did not care.

  But he’d care soon enough.

  “Pretty, ain’t it?”

  “Pretty expensive,” Tommy said without turning to look at the new arrival. He had been waiting for Stone for over an hour. He didn’t need him for the job, but Tommy preferred having Stone at his side whenever possible.

  “How ya doin’, Stick?” Stone asked.

  Stick was as much a street name for Tommy as Stone was for...well, for whatever Stone’s name had been before. Tommy wasn’t a fan of being called “Stick,” but even he would agree it was better than the name Stone had given him when they first met. It had taken a good ten months or so, almost a year, before he stopped referring to him as “White Boy,” so Tommy looked on “Stick” as an improvement. Not much of one, mind you, but better.