What Do Monsters Fear

by Matt Hayward

“It reminds me of The Deep Ones,” Peter said. “From a H.P. Lovecraft story. The ones from Innsmouth.”

  Donald arched an eyebrow. “The who from the what?”

  “The Deep Ones. Amphibious creatures that used to be people. It’s a strange story. When I was on tour, I heard that a lot of bands used H.P. Lovecraft as an influence for their lyrics. We had plans for a second album and I was dry when it came to lyrics so I read all of his stuff. The writing’s a little dated but the stories are good. This thing looks like one of his creatures, one of The Deep Ones.”

  “Are you holding a H.P. Lovecraft book?” Henry asked.

  Peter flipped the cover, the brown leather cracking. He scanned the small gold print, trying to decipher the faded title. “Nah . . . Looks to be in Latin, too. But I don’t think it’s Lovecraft. Lovecraft’s covers would be modern reprints, not some worn out old dusty thing like this. I mean, it looks like a bible or something . . . No way he’d have been translated to Latin back when this thing was published. It’s old, Henry.”

  “So what do you reckon?” Donald asked. For the first time, Peter thought the man sounded frightened.

  “I have no idea,” he said. “But I think we should gather up a few and take them to the living room. There’s a notebook on the table by the phone, do you see it, Andrew? Good. Grab that, too.”

  Donald swiped a handful of the books from a shelf. “Now let’s leave. Gettin’ the willies here, kid.”

  They managed fifteen titles between them before making their way to the living room. Once there, they dumped them to the rug and spread out on the couches. The fire had died, leaving a sharp chill in the air.

  “Any logs?” Henry asked. “There were logs stacked here yesterday.”

  “That was my job,” Andrew confessed. “I didn’t get around to doing it today. Not with what’s been happening, I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Peter said. “We can grab some blankets from upstairs if it starts getting cold. Right now, I just want to see what all this is all about.”

  He started with the notebook, the kind of ledger found in any gas station for a dollar. Besides being new, the book gave the same feeling as the other.

  Dirty and wrong . . .

  Peter scanned the first page:

  The five subjects are good. They’re grasping for straws. It’s pretty pathetic, actually.

  “Oh my God . . .” Peter tore his eyes from the page. “It’s all here. Fisher’s own words.”

  “What’s it say?” Donald asked.

  “Listen to this, he’s keeping track of everything.”

  Donald rolled his finger. “Well fuckin’ read it out!”

  “It says . . . There’s one man, Walter Cartwright, about forty-six or so, fat with big glasses. He’s a mess. I’m sure he’ll be the first to go. Phobos will settle nicely in this one. If he can control himself this time.” Peter lowered the book. “Phobos?”

  The three men shook their heads. He continued.

  “I prepared the first host simply as a tester. But my concerns turned out to be true. Phobos couldn’t control Himself. Too eager . . . The heroin addict, Shelly Matthews, succumbed to terrible withdrawal on the first night. I took her to the basement and did it. I followed Dawson’s instructions to the letter.” Peter looked to Andrew. “The basement? Where’s the basement, Andrew?”

  The large man’s forehead creased. “I swear, I didn’t even know this place had a basement. Honest.”

  Peter turned his attention back to Jerry’s notebook. “It was messy,” he read. “She didn’t know what was happening. The other guests were in bed, so getting her down took some effort. When she awoke, she kicked the place apart. Nearly broke one of my tables, destroyed my things. I had to be quick. I sliced her throat. Collected the blood in a copper basin, just as instructed, and then . . . Then I saw magic . . . I was wrong to ever doubt Dawson. When I checked again, the blood had disappeared. Phobos is here! He’s alive!!!”

  “Sweet Jesus,” Henry said, raising a shaking hand to his mouth. “He killed that poor woman . . .”

  When Peter looked back to the page, he noticed his own hands trembling. He continued reading. “I can handle this just fine. It won’t take me too long, which is good, because I think I might have underestimated a couple of the candidates. Henry Randolph, the old guy, he’s wising up to something, and he’s got the younger one (a pathetic loser in his thirties) convinced. They’re conspiring. I’m chalking it up to them being paranoid, trying to cement that in their minds at our one-to-ones. Thought that excuse would work, but they’re seeing through. I need to be quick.”

  “I knew it from day one,” Henry said, his voice flat. “The heartless, pathetic bastard. How dare he.”

  “Let me get to the end, Henry.” Peter licked his lips and cleared his throat. “I’ll keep working at that, but right now Jamie Peters has my attention. He spilled everything to me at our counseling session, everything. I got it all. He’s seventeen with a hard-ass for a father and a mother who pays no attention, blah blah. The usual story we’ve all heard a thousand times. The kid rebelled by hosted pharming parties but ended up getting caught . . . Wound up here, telling me all about it. Telling Phobos all about it.

  “And it’s happened; already, today, I saw Phobos working on him. I don’t think Jamie can fight it. I wonder what my Lord showed him? I wish we could see that part. The kid’s weak, and once he goes down, I’ll prepare his body as our second host, because, as I said, Shelly did not work out. Christ, what a mess . . . The corpse was too small, too frail, but still, Phobos tried. An amazing sight!”

  “What did he do?” Donald asked.

  “Her body lay on the table, lifeless. Then, out of nowhere, it jittered as if someone put a pump inside, inflating her, filling up . . .”

  Peter took a deep, unsteady breath. “Her head began changing shape, like putty moving all by itself . . . She screamed, or at least, Phobos screamed using her mouth. I didn’t expect that to happen with Phobos being so weak. The act must have been agonizing. After a while, it just stopped. All of it. My Lord tried, but Shelly wasn’t a match. Her body’s a used-up mess now. The bones are broken, the skin stretched . . . doesn’t even look human. I’ll discard of the corpse soon enough . . .

  I can’t get used to writing manually but at Harris’ request I’m doing it. I’m still reading up in the library. Half pulled it apart for more information.”

  Peter lowered the book and looked to the others. Henry’s eyes glistened and shook. Donald stared at the wall, his face unreadable. Andrew looked frightened and confused, like a man experiencing a bad dream.

  “What do you make of that?” Peter asked.

  Andrew smacked his hand down on the couch. “It’s the ramblings of a mad man!”

  “Hey!” Henry said. “If I hadn’t seen what I’ve seen with my own two eyes, I’d agree with you. One hundred percent. But that’s not the case and you know it because of that phone—”

  “I haven’t seen anything!” Andrew interrupted. “Nothing! All I know is that my wife called. She’s leaving me! That’s what I know, and as hard as that is to believe, it’s a hell of a lot easier a pill to swallow than believing in a god named Phobos who hosts inside human bodies!”

  Donald chuckled. “It sounds insane, man, I won’t correct you there, but . . .” He turned to Andrew then, his expression serious. “Shut the fuck up and let the man finish reading, now. You hearin’ me?”

  Andrew nodded without a word.

  “Good,” Donald said. “Pete, continue, please.”

  Peter did. “I hope Phobos knows how hard I’m working for Him. I hope He can see that. I hope he reward me because I do deserve it. Very soon, He can try to host again. This time in the boy’s body. The only thing I’m worried of is the boy’s age. He’s so young . . . His bones might be too fragile to take the transfer, even though he’s built like a brick shithouse. We’ll see . . . If not him, then another. Either way, I think we can do this. That Walter one is
losing his mind already, hallucinating. He said something about an ice cream man on the first night, that’s when I knew Phobos was in the house. He showed Walter a molesting childhood ice cream man! Ha! I could hardly contain my excitement. And . . . I saw Him, in His raw state, but my brain could only perceive Him as a black fog . . . Reading all these tales is one thing, but seeing it for real? My god, it’s magnificent.”

  Peter lowered the notebook and thumbed the rest of the pages. “All blank,” he said. “This is Fisher’s first one.”

  “We’re like goddamn mice for a snake here,” Donald said. “That’s exactly it, ain’t it? Mice for a motherfuckin’ pet snake. Jumpin’ talkin’ Jesus.” He shook his head. “Where is this fuckin’ Phobos? Eh? I’ve had enough of this shit. I ain’t waitin’ around to be a snack or a . . . a fuckin’ shell! Let’s find the bastard.”

  “Donny.” Peter kept his voice calm. “We need to stay level headed. Keep our wits about us. Let’s gather together what we know.”

  “It was all a ruse,” Henry said. “Dawson and Fisher, they’re some sort of religious servants to this god, this Phobos. A creature that feeds on fear . . . That’s why Fisher counseled us one by one. He separated us out, getting us to open up to him. Me seeing my son, Walter seeing the ice cream man . . . It all makes sense now. We were giving ammo to that creature. He’s getting inside our heads to scare us to death.”

  “He needs a host body,” Peter added. “Like he needs to find a good fit. Shelly’s body wasn’t good enough for him. And Jamie? who knows. His neck is sliced, but he is young . . .”

  Donald leaned forward. “Yo. You all right, kid?”

  “Yeah.” Peter smiled sheepishly. “I know this isn’t the time for it, but I think my brain is screaming for a cigarette . . . Can feel the oxygen in my system, making me feel a little lightheaded. I’ll be fine.”

  “I’ve been the same, don’t worry about it. Keep thinking of something else.”

  “I thought you guys would be a bunch of tweakers,” Andrew said. “Honest. I thought you’d be, I don’t know, different.”

  “Don’t judge someone on one bad life choice,” Henry said. “Can go stale for anyone and at any time. Might be down, but we’re not out.”

  “Damn right,” Donald said. He stood. “And we’re going to find this sumbitch and whoop his ass. Ancient fuckin’ god or not, if its standin’ and breathin’ I’ll knock its fuckin’ teeth loose. Where we gonna find the bitch, eh?”

  “I don’t think we need to find him,” Henry said. His face dropped, his face shining with sweat. He pointed to the window. “I think he’s just found us.”

  “You’re shittin’ me . . .”

  Outside, Walter tapped the glass, and smiled.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THE SNOW SETTLED ON WALTER’S bare shoulders, his skin anemic and goose-pimpled. His glasses fogged with the cold, and his once-dyed black hair, now mostly white, stood up in awkward clumps. He smiled, pressing his face to the window. “It sure is cold out here, guys. Aren’t you going to let me in?”

  Peter’s spine crawled, like cold ants scuttling beneath his clothes. He stood shoulder to shoulder with the others, watching the grinning corpse. The logical side of his brain tried to tell him that this was all a very real dream, brought about by the stress of going cold turkey. It had to be. But he knew his own mind well, and this was real as real could be. Outside, a dead man walked.

  “You said he’d died,” Andrew shouted, pointing towards the window. “You idiots! What have you done?”

  “Andrew!” Henry’s face turned red, his nostrils flaring. “It’s a trick. That’s all it is. That thing, that Phobos has hosted inside of him, haven’t you been listening to a thing Peter said?”

  The corner of Andrew’s lips curled in a smirk. “I’ve been listening, all right, but all I see is a cold man, old-timer. I got a call from my wife, and she’s leaving me. One of you sickos planted a notebook in the library, don’t you think I can see that? You’re all off your rockers. I mean, how do I even know those pages weren’t blank? This guy just made all that up, luring me into your trap, and you know what? It ain’t working, you lunatics. Wherever you’ve hidden Mr. Fisher, whatever you’ve done to him, don’t worry, when I get back with the police, you can tell them, because I’m getting the fuck out of here. Oh, and if you try and stop me? It won’t end well for any of you.”

  “Try.” Peter said. Henry and Donald looked to him. “Tell them to get here as soon as they can, because all the phone lines are down. We have no cell phones, either, Fisher made sure of that. And just so you know, driving to town takes a half hour, so if you’re to walk it in this weather . . . Well, be my guest.”

  “I will.”

  Andrew charged from the room, elbowing Peter aside, and Donny shot Peter a questioning look. Well, kid? What are we gonna do?

  “Andrew, wait!”

  Peter ran to the man and narrowly avoided getting his third blow in two days. Andrew’s muscular arm swung but Peter expected it.

  You don’t take two punches in a day and not learn something.

  He ducked as Andrew’s knuckles cracked off the doorframe with a dull whack. Andrew balked, cradling his hand.

  “You let me go, y’hear?”

  “Sure,” Peter said. “But help me get Walter back inside the house first. Please. He’s as confused as the rest of us, okay? He’ll freeze to death out there in his pajamas. As far as I know, you’re in control here now that Fisher’s absent. You can’t call the police if one of your patients froze to death while in your care, now can you?”

  Andrew’s face fell sober. Peter didn’t know what to expect, and didn’t know what to do. Henry, with his old age, needed Donald by him because they couldn’t be left alone, not with Phobos stalking about. Peter was going after Andrew. The large man wanted to leave, but they needed as much help as they could get to defeat Phobos, and this seemed to be the only option of slowing the man down while Peter came up with a better solution. The idea of somehow capturing Phobos, with Andrew to help them, seemed the only next step on the board. Check and mate. They needed Andrew’s help.

  “Please, Andrew,” Peter said. “You need to help me get him back inside, keep him from harming himself, or someone else. Put him to bed, maybe? You’ve got some medication we can use to sedate him, don’t you? There’s got to be some in this place.”

  “We’ve got nothing here, Jerry said Dawson ran an organic detox.” Andrew looked to the three of them and took a deep breath. “I’ll get him inside, you hear me? You stay inside and don’t move.”

  I can’t let him do that, Peter thought. He didn’t like Andrew, but letting him outside with Phobos? He couldn’t live with himself if something happened. Sure, the man had tried to punch him, but it wasn’t his fault. Peter would have done the same. Andrew had only tried to be rational.

  “Andrew, wait. Hold on.”

  The large man left. Peter ran after, but Andrew was quicker, getting the door open and hopping the front steps in one stride. Then he took off straight ahead; down the yard and towards town. Peter stood on the porch, and watched him go.

  “You fucking coward!” he shouted. “Get back here!”

  Snow kicked up from Andrew’s boots, leaving two jagged trenches in the white as his breath steamed away like a coal train. Then Donald and Henry appeared beside Peter, their eyes wide.

  “Fucker made a break for it?” Donald asked. “Runnin’ away?”

  “Yeah, he did, Donny. Look, you stay here with Henry in case Jerry or Paul come back, all right?

  “What are you going to do?” Henry asked.

  “Just wait here.”

  Peter descended the porch steps, slipping on the ice. The snow swallowed his boots, the air stinging his lungs. He looked to the left of the house for any signs of Walter’s footprints, trying to track the man, but saw none. He rounded the corner of the house, and froze. Before him, Walter levitated.

  The deadman’s legs dangled beneath his body, at le
ast two inches above the ground. His feet hung, pointed down, as Walter glided with a grin splitting his face. He cast a look in Peter’s direction before shooting off towards Andrew.

  “Andrew!” Peter heard himself shout. “Andrew, run!”

  Peter couldn’t help the man now. Phobos could catch him in a snap, like a snake hunting prey; toying with it. Peter could only shout.

  “Shit!”

  He barged through the snow, lifting his legs almost to his stomach. Climbing the porch, he stood next to Donald and Henry, feeling safer with them than out in the dark, but not by much.

  “Oh my God . . .”

  The three watched in horror as their dead friend floated towards Andrew. The orderly tripped and fell, getting to his feet and continuing with what had to be the last of his energy. Peter’s stomach fell as he realized the deadman was indeed only toying with Andrew.

  “Like a cat on a cornered mouse,” Peter whispered.

  “Poor fuck,” Donald said. “He’s got him . . . Done for.”

  The floating corpse sped up with frightening speed, gained on Andrew just as the he reached the fence at the bottom of the yard. He slammed into him, sending them both sprawling to the snow. Then Walter sat on Andrew’s back, his bloated stomach jiggling. He grabbed hold of the frightened man’s shoulders and slammed his head into the frosty powder. Andrew screamed, his voice muffled.

  Walter cackled. “Are you watching, you ugly things? Are you watching?”

  He brought Andrew’s head up in an awkward angle by clutching his chin in both hands. The man’s spine arched, and Phobos kept pulling. Peter yelled for him to stop it, but he knew it was useless. Phobos kept yanking, his weight pressing the man’s back as Andrew’s spine continued to bend, his face red and twisted.

  “Stop!” Peter shouted.

  Phobos let Andrew drop, the man panting for breath. On the porch, Henry moaned.

  Then Phobos turned, facing the three of them while sitting on Andrew’s back.

  “Listen to this, boys. The feel good hit of the summer.”

  A sharp snap echoed across the yard. Crows cawed in response and Henry yelped.