In Creeps The Night

by Natalie Gibson

  And the bossy little voice in her head better shut up. Right now. Didn’t have any patience for theatrics.

  Still had to contend with the annual parade and after that, a costume party.

  Don’t…

  She shoved the orchid into his chest. “I don’t have time for your head games. Here’s your delivery. Have a nice day.”

  His fingers brushed hers as he reached for the plant.

  An earwig crept out of the soil and onto her sleeve. She swatted at it and the pot slipped from her hand, shattering at her feet. She bent to clean up the mess, grumbling when a sharp edge of broken porcelain scratched her palm and left a wet red trail in its wake.

  “Don’t be afraid,” he said out loud this time.

  Got to be kidding. But she kept from flinching when he crouched beside her, put his mouth to the scratch and kissed it—that was a kiss, wasn’t it? And kept from screaming when he showed her the unmarred skin where the wound had been moments ago.

  She lifted her face to his. “What are you?”

  “Hungry,” he said, avoiding her direct gaze.

  Didn’t know what he meant but didn’t intend to stick around and find out. The delivery was done. The door was open. She was free to go.

  Security alarms shrieked down the sterile hallway.

  She stepped closer. “What are you? Besides hungry?”

  Patients started shouting.

  He retreated into the darkness. “I am nothing until the hunger is sated.”

  Windows started cracking.

  She took another step. “I’m all out of granola bars, pal. You want help, start talking.”

  Furniture started rattling.

  “I haven’t fed in three months and without nourishment, I am powerless to protect you or defend myself.”

  “Nobody can survive that long without food.”

  “Your blood tasted of curiosity and knowledge. My nature cannot be a mystery to you.”

  Nope. But no reason to admit it and no time to discuss it. “Why are you here?”

  His breath was a blast of angry wind on her cheek. “I was betrayed and am kept weak and contained by silver injections.”

  Footsteps echoed in the stairwell and elevator cables groaned.

  She shoved up the sleeve of her sweater. “Only take what you need to escape.”

  His fingers curled around her wrist. “Are you sure you can trust me?”

  “Nope but by the sounds of it, neither of us are getting out of here. Unless we work together. I’m hoping that if I donate blood to empower you, you’ll return the favor by protecting me.”

  He bent over her arm, bit down, and drank. When he was done, he looked up, her blood smeared like lipstick on his mouth, and said, “Now we can walk out of the room and away from the facility.”

  “Won’t they recognize us?”

  “No,” he said, disappearing into the air and transforming into a beetle at her feet.

  Shit. Why did it have to be a bug? Bit her lip, held back the scream, and bent to scoop him up. Dumped him into the orchid pot and went out into the hall.

  The stairwell door opened. The elevator bell rang. The hall was flooded with frenzied security guards and patients. None of them looked at her.

  Rushed for the stairs. Raced through the deserted reception area, past the vacated guard post, and into the parking lot.

  Terror struck, then. Swift as encroaching fog. Sharp as jagged teeth. Dumped the orchid pot on the curb, ran for the delivery van, and peeled out of the parking lot. Steadied her nerves with the confidence she’d kept her end of the bargain.

  Busied herself with the parade of candy and children. Moved on to the costume party. Held court as a wallflower, serving punch and cookies. Until a beetle scuttled across the orange and black checkerboard tablecloth.

  Clapped a pumpkin-printed napkin over it, took it outside and tossed it under the shrubs. Faced the full moon, awaiting certain punishment.

  It came in a rush of creepy crawly things swarming toward her but before it reached her feet, the horde turned into a carpet of night-blooming flowers.

  A warm breath caressed her neck like a silk scarf. “I am in your debt, my evening primrose.”

  Smiled in her heart, turned into his dark embrace, and opened her mouth to let the night creep in.

  UP THE STAIRS, up the stairs, up the stairs! Heart racing, I sprint up the rickety stairs two at a time, sometimes three, every footfall stirring clouds of decades-old dust. Am I even breathing? I don’t know. Deborah’s heavy footsteps echo mine on the ancient oak. I can almost feel her cold, wispy fingers tangling in my hair and it propels me forward—whether I am breathing or not.

  Across the landing! Through the doorway! Relief floods my nostrils with air as my room, my safe haven, comes into sight. Diving into the overstuffed chair, I wedge my head between my knees and cross my arms over top of me in the way they taught us to sit during bomb drills in grade school. Deborah’s footsteps thud across the thick carpet and halt at my doorway. The dreaded thump, thump is replaced by a blood-curdling shriek.

  “I’m…sorry…Deborah!” I manage to gasp. “I didn’t…realize…what day…it was!” My whole body trembles violently as icy cold beads form along my temples and on the underside of my arms. My lungs heave and burn as I struggle to suck in air past the gingham back cushion of my chair. God, please make her go away….

  A floorboard creaks on my side of the doorway—the first time any of my housemates dared cross into my territory. Squeezing my eyes shut, I bury deeper into the musty fabric as another creak echoes in the old manor followed by an agonized scream. I’m going to die. Panic creeps through my veins. By now my heart’s hammering so loudly I can’t hear above the rush of blood.

  “I’m in my chair! You can’t hurt me if I’m in my chair!” I screech. Is that another footstep? A male voice murmurs in soothing tones outside my room. Gilbert. If anyone can pacify Deborah, it is him. Footsteps recede and then fade into nothingness. Stillness settles over the decrepit manor until I hear crickets chirping from the lawn. Cautiously I raise my head, my breath coming in short, panting gasps. No sign of Deborah or Gilbert. Thank you, God.

  I collapse with a groan against the back of the chair, my muscles relaxing for the first time since catching Deborah in the kitchen with that butcher’s knife. Oh man, what a sight. Those spindly fingers of hers gripping that massive, rusty blade high above her head…those lidless eyes as she turned to me…. I shudder.

  In the hall the old grandfather clock begins to chime. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. I lay against the chair a few seconds more before flinging myself onto my bed, careful not to let even a toe brush against the floor. Crawling under the covers, I shed my clothes and shove them down with my feet until they hit the footboard.

  With a sigh I snuggle in and close my eyes. My throat is still parched but I daren’t sneak into the kitchen now. It is Deborah’s domain until sunrise, especially with it being the anniversary of her dear Stanley’s death. Twenty years ago he’d been found in the kitchen, stabbed through the heart with that same butcher’s knife Deborah now held in her hand. No doubt she is in the middle of her weekly ritual. Secretly, I believe it was her. The authorities never could prove it, but that demented woman has enough screws loose in her head to commit and get away with any kind of crime. Including slitting my throat.

  I was crazy, mom had said, moving into a haunted house. I don’t know about that, but apart from tonight’s mishap it’s working out beautifully. We stick to our allotted rooms in our allotted times and for the last two months we’ve managed to coexist. Gilbert doesn’t charge much for rent, just a couple games of chess a month in his room, and I can be as unsocial as I want to be. No one insists on dropping by and I have yet to be pestered with solicitors.

  Sometime between two and three the sound of scuffling outside my room brings me to my senses again. A knife clatters. Voices. I huddle under the sheets, not daring to peek. Footsteps creak
along the floorboards. Are they…yes. They are coming closer. Suddenly my room becomes as frigid as a morgue.

  “Stanley, I baked you a cake,” Deborah’s husky voice utters from the foot of my bed. “It’s our anniversary, don’t you remember?”

  Oh, dear God, she’s in my room! I don’t know if I should stay put or make a mad dash for my chair. Adrenaline pulses through my body. Sweat beads on my brow. Where’s Gilbert? Surely there’s something that old ghost can do to keep Deborah from decapitating me. Why in tarnation isn’t he keeping peace?

  “Answer me, Stanley!” An icy coldness settles heavily over my feet and legs. I can’t move them. It steals upwards on my body and sits on my chest. “Wake up.” Something resembling a knife tip prods at me through the sheets. Slowly I push them down until my eyes lock with fiery, pupil-less eyes hovering inches above my face. Green mist outlines the face of a shriveled skull with a tight bun wound atop the crown.

  “Deborah, Stanley’s dead!” I squeak, but she seems not to hear. Her lidless eyes stare straight through me as a sinister grin takes over her mouth.

  “Chocolate, your favorite. Now come into the kitchen and eat it with me.”

  The face floats upwards and the numbness in my lower body dissipates. I sit up and watch in horror as the ghostly shadow slinks across my floor and glides through my door. Should I follow her? If this is a re-enactment of Stanley’s last day, I could have all my questions answered simply by peeking through a keyhole. Goodness it’s cold in here. I wonder how long it’s going to take for the side effects of Deborah’s visit to wear off. Another factor to consider: it’s too darn cold to go back to sleep. Curiosity finally wins out over caution and the sheets are thrown back. I wrap up in my bathrobe and hug a blanket around me. Softly I pad over to my door and open it, peeking out. The coast is clear. I slip out of my room and tiptoe across the landing and down the stairs to the kitchen. The whole house feels like an igloo. I pull the blanket closer about my shoulders. Light spills from under the door and again, I hear voices.

  “Deborah,” a nasally voice whines. “De-booooore-ah, I was sleeeeeping.”

  “Sit. Eat,” the command comes.

  I sink to my knees and level my eye with the keyhole. Inside two figures sit around the kitchen table. A fungus-riddled mound sits between them. The cake, I realize. I always wondered what it had been. My ears strain as the voices pick up again, but I cannot hear what they are saying. The figure I assume to be Deborah stands and wanders over to the counter. This has got to be it! She turns. Where is the knife?

  “Stanley, did you know this house is haunted?” Deborah cackles from her place by the counter. “I want you to meet Gilbert.” Before me, the scene continues uninterrupted as Gilbert’s shadow seeps into the room, his arm poised above his head. But just like Deborah, it’s a shell of his usual apparition. Where are they? And blast it all, where is that knife? The sound of heavy breathing comes from behind me. Footsteps. A knife being sharpened.

  “You shouldn’t have come down,” a grandfatherly voice whispers behind me.

  “It’s too late to run,” a harsh voice cackles.

  Oh God, why did I leave my room?

  COLORFUL CHRYSANTHEMUMS BRIGHTENED the stone foundation of Gloria Anderson’s 1927 house. The entire house—including the enclosed front porch—consisted of less than a thousand square feet. The feature that sold Gloria on the tiny fixer-upper had been the rustic stone basement. A seven-by-seven foot earthen wine cellar abutted the north end of the basement, complete with an ancient looking arched wooden door. On the other side of the door three wide pieces of slate served as steps, and the air inside the wine cellar stayed at fifty-two degrees year round. It reminded her of Italy, although she’d never been there. Gloria could barely stand up in the space, but it made the tiny house, and for the first time in her life she wasn’t living in an apartment all alone. She lived in a house all alone.

  Plain, stocky women didn’t get married in Gloria’s day. The men of her generation preferred svelte Hepburn, Mia Farrow, or Twiggy looking women. Over the years Gloria had often wished just one good man would find strong peasant stock worthy. No one ever did, but Gloria’s kind-hearted family made up for that deficit. She attended every wedding, anniversary, and school event, and became Aunt Gloria to even her own brothers. After purchasing the house, that legacy proved fruitful to the aging homeowner. A niece in high school mowed her grass every Saturday; her brothers painted the house inside and out, and nephews dragged a brand new washer and dryer into the old stone basement.

  On a Saturday in mid-September her niece mowed the yard while Gloria pulled weeds, and after completing their tasks they went through the back door together so Jasmine could collect payment. This week’s payment consisted of a box of homemade raisin oatmeal, chocolate chip cookies and a ten-dollar bill.

  Jasmine lifted the lid of the shoebox lined in wax paper and crammed a cookie into her mouth. “Probably the last mow of the season, but I’ll rake for you when you need it. Did you finish the book I gave you?”

  “Yes. I always read everything you give me, even the sparkly vampire stuff. I want the next one in the series now.”

  Jasmine crammed another cookie into her mouth. She reminded Gloria of herself, capable and strong, only prettier and not afraid to talk with her mouth full. “It’ll cost you some sugar cookies—the frosted kind.”

  “It’s a deal,” Gloria promised, and went straight to her little bathroom after Jasmine’s departure. Turning on the hot water while sweat trickled down her back, she noticed dirt under her fingernails and picked at it while peeling off her housedress.

  A knock sounded at the back door, which usually meant family. Gloria shouted, “Come on in!” and hurried into the shower, tugging the curtain shut. “I’m in the shower! Give me two minutes!” She scratched her fingernails over the bar of soap, wishing she’d remembered to do so earlier, before she’d weeded all morning.

  It surprised her when someone pushed the bathroom door open, and before her pragmatic mind could decide why her family would intrude, the shower curtain wrapped around her, pinning her arms to her sides. Her heart began pounding double-time. Gloria recoiled, attempting to escape by backing further inside the narrow space, but someone—a man—held tightly, encasing her in the plastic barrier right against the shower wall. Whoever it was apparently hadn’t bargained on a two-hundred-pound former gym teacher as prey. She might be sixty, but Gloria could still lead a full court press.

  Gloria kicked off the wall and leaned into him. The shower pole tore off the wall and she tumbled out of the narrow enclosure and fell right on top of the man, knocking his head against the toilet so hard that she cringed. I killed him!

  Fearing what she’d find, Gloria heaved herself off the still body and peeled the pink plastic off him. Grabbing her robe off a hook, she pulled it on and bent over him. He looked young, not much older than her nephews, maybe twenty or so, thin and wiry, with tattoos covering both arms and a shaved head. Despite landing against the porcelain toilet bowl, Gloria saw no blood, and he appeared to be breathing.

  She slapped him across the face, hard. “Are you dying?”

  He made an angry sound. Without mercy Gloria rolled him onto his stomach, removed the tie off her robe and hog-tied him, hands to feet. She sat on the toilet seat, thinking. There’s no weapon. What was he planning to do to me? Kill me with his bare hands? Was he crazy? A murderer? A rapist? An addict? A thief?

  After careful scrutiny Gloria still couldn’t decide. He didn’t look thin enough to be much of an addict, and while he looked fit with ropy muscles like kids from the street, he didn’t look strong. It really didn’t matter though. After years spent teaching physical education, Gloria recognized potential. She also recognized lack of discipline. What a shame!

  Standing, she opened the little cupboard under the sink where her brother had fixed a leak a week ago. Bingo. He always used duct tape. The man regained consciousness before Gloria finished encasing him in a cocoon
of the useful tape, but he couldn’t do much more than swear at her and thrash around. Gloria used the last bit of tape to cover his filthy mouth and went into the kitchen to find more.

  She poured herself an iced tea and sat at the table to think and calm down, ignoring the sounds and vibrations coming from the bathroom. Does he really think he can come into my house—the one I worked my whole life to afford—and attack me and swear at me?

  Idly Gloria wondered what the punishment would be for what he’d done. Did people like this get jail time? Probation? Community service? She read the newspapers. Justice was old-fashioned. It interfered with criminals’ rights.

  After a particularly loud bang the man quieted, and Gloria, mind made up, located another roll of duct tape under the kitchen sink. Returning to the bathroom she finished her project, and proceeded to drag her criminal toward the basement, pulling him by his tightly bound legs. Halfway across the kitchen he came to again and struggled, kicking, but Gloria settled him down by yanking him without warning down the basement steps. Sweating a bit, she hauled her prize across the basement floor and into the tiny wine cellar, allowing his body to roll down the three short steps onto the dirt floor. Flipping a switch that illuminated the single bulb, Gloria leaned down and yanked the tape off the man’s mouth.

  She slapped him again, trying to rouse him. “Hey! Hey! Did you read Fifty Shades of Grey?”

  He swore at her.

  Gloria used both hands to plant the piece of tape over his mouth again, stepping away as her words sunk in and he began thrashing, making desperate animal noises in his throat.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll show you what it’s about, and I’ll take good care of you—after you take good care of me.”

  Shutting the light out, Gloria went out the door and shoved it closed behind her. She paused a moment. She couldn’t hear a thing. Smiling, she headed up the stairs. First she’d need to look up a few things in that book of Jasmine’s, then she’d make a trip to Lowes for supplies and after a shower, she would at last use her playroom.