“T-bone.”
“They took off. What gives?”
Riggs pointed to a clutter of band posters taped, tacked and stapled to the wall.
“The Bright Chiefs were supposed to play tonight. Local group, nothing but covers. They bring ‘em in and keep ‘em in.”
“And?” Hannah said, not liking where this was going.
“One of the kids told me the band split up last week. Artistic differences or money trouble, who knows. So, I just called them. Long story short, we don’t have a band tonight.”
“Okay, that’s bad.”
“It’s beyond bad. The Rock is the place to hit once you’re back on campus. Saturday before classes, this crowd expects a big blowout. No band, no fuckin’ sales. Word’s gonna get around—I’m gonna lose ‘em all to that new joint in Galesburg or Doc’s over in Oquawka. Shit! We gotta do something. Quick.”
Hannah looked back at the bar. A dozen or so girls lazed about while half as many guys played video poker or checked their phones.
“That’s a good ratio,” she said.
“Huh?”
"I'm going to give something a try. Always worked back in the day. You don't happen to have a drinking song playlist, do you?"
Riggs grinned. “Just so happens I do.”
He fiddled with his phone and Tracy Byrd’s “Watermelon Crawl” kicked in over the speakers.
“Crank it.”
Hannah undid the two top buttons on her shirt and stalked back to the bar. One by one, she scooped the bowls of pretzels out from under the college kids’ noses.
“Hey!” a bleached blonde squealed.
Hannah grabbed a stack of shot glasses and set them up in a row down the bar. She grabbed the largest shaker she could find, threw in a handful of ice and proceeded to make a massive drink in time with the music. Sloe gin, amaretto, Southern Comfort.
She snatched the soda gun from its holster, stepped up on the beer cooler and shot orange juice down into the pitcher, tapping out time with a red cowboy boot.
Every boy at the bar had their eyes on her, and that included Riggs.
Hannah bent down and capped the shaker. She caught Riggs’ eye and winked.
“Sonofabitch,” he whispered.
With moves learned over years tending bar in the roughest Jersey dives, Hannah hypnotized the males in the room, raising the ire of the females. She shook the shaker left, she shook the shaker right—she had them all on a string.
Two young guys stepped in the front door and froze. “Damn,” one said.
Pulling out moves she hadn’t tried in a decade, Hannah heel-toed it down the length of the bar, pouring high-flying shots as she went. Only one missed its mark, and that was because a kid in a John Deere hat leaned over and caught it in his mouth.
“This round’s for the guys,” Hannah said, raising the shaker. “Here’s to you, boys. It’s Alabama Slammer time! Five…four…three…”
There was a mad rush for the shot glasses, and by the time Hannah reached zero, the drinks were down and gone.
She locked eyes with buzz cut and sauntered over to him. “Only a little left,” she said. The boy held out his empty shot glass, and she deftly poured the last of the liquid, filling it to the brim.
Wait for it…
As if on cue, buzz cut’s date grabbed the shot from his hand and downed it.
“Whoo!” the girl cried, covering up the burn.
Hannah turned back to Riggs and gave him the volume up signal with her thumb. It took him a second to translate, but his timing proved advantageous, the sound system belting out Gretchen Wilson as the next song started up.
Buzz cut’s date clambered up onto the bar.
“Whoo!” she said, echoing herself.
Wait for it…
A second ignored girl hopped up and joined her. Soon, four gals were dancing on the bar.
Hannah slid off the bar and went from guy to guy.
“Don’cha wanna buy the lady a drink?”
“Two shots for the price of one.”
“Now that’s a girl who needs some Jack.”
Hannah glanced over at Riggs, who stood marveling at her. Yeah, all she'd done was play on the poor girls' jealousies to sell a few drinks, but it felt so good to know she still had it. It made her smile, made her feel alive for the first time in months.
She snapped in Riggs’ direction. “You gonna stand there with your thumb up your ass or are you gonna help a girl out?”
“Let’s do it to it!” Riggs said. He hustled to her side and grabbed up a bottle of Jack.
Peter stood stock-still next to the bed. Wind rattled the window behind him.
“Hello?” he said to the darkness. The darkness didn’t answer.
He flicked on the overhead light. The room lit up pale and yellow.
He took a step forward, and the floor creaked. He paused, listening.
“Hello?” he said, louder this time.
Nothing.
With the bedroom light on, the world beyond the doorway had gone decidedly darker. Anything could be lurking out there.
Something was. The spoiled meat smell told him as much. The figure had glided by rapidly, but not so fast that Peter couldn’t make out a few details. The man was small in stature—wiry. He was dressed in grey work pants and a flannel shirt. His face was as ashen as stone.
He had dead eyes.
He hadn’t seen Peter. Peter didn’t know how he knew this—he just…knew it. The same way he knew that if he stepped through the doorway and into the heart of the house, he might see him. Could see him.
He hesitated a moment longer, then headed for the door. He stepped out onto the landing overlooking the flight of steps to the foyer. He heard the rustling of paper below, like leaves caught in the wind, but definitely paper. Was it the drawings fluttering about? Waiting for him to come on down?
He threw on the light over the stairs, and they descended before him. He walked slowly, picking his way down, eyes and ears open and alert.
As soon as he hit the foyer, he heard a splintering crash behind him, and he whirled about. The sound had come from down the hallway.
From the kitchen.
He knew this because the kitchen light was on, casting its green glow into the hallway.
Peter wished he had a pot and pan in hand so he could bang away, New Year’s Eve-style to let whatever was in the kitchen know he was heading its way.
Screw that. Give me a gun. A big ass gun.
He approached the kitchen and saw the glint on the floor too late to stop. Shards of glass bit into his right foot, and he recoiled.
Raising his leg, Peter pulled the pieces of broken glass from his sole—three in all, the last one the deepest. He rubbed the wounds briskly with his thumb, smearing blood. Watching for glass, he took a tentative step. His wounds stung.
Picking his way around the scattered pieces, he rounded the kitchen door. The brown, plastic handle of the coffeemaker lay in a pile of curved glass shards sitting in the remains of their morning pot of joe.
The coffee was black in the flickering fluorescent light. And it was everywhere—splashed across the linoleum floor, dripping down the fridge. Like a mini crime scene.
The dead scent was stronger here. It rose from the coffee-splattered floor, seeped from the wallpapered walls.
Like the whole house is rotting.
A door slammed, and Peter knew instantly it was the door to the basement. He could hear it open and close, over and over—wooden claps daring him to investigate. To go see what all the fuss was about.
He stepped through the obstacle course of broken glass and headed toward the back of the room, leaving bloody footprints in his wake.
When he stepped through the doorway into the back room and switched on the light, he caught the basement door slamming shut.
All was quiet. Peter instantly regretted everything—coming to Illinois, moving into the house…
Coming downstairs.
There was
a knock on the basement door, and Peter leaped back. It came again, quiet but rapid tapping. He heard a muffled voice but couldn’t make out the words. Should he approach? Should he open the door?
Fuck that noise.
Still, Peter found himself moving toward it. With a hand not his own, he reached out and grabbed the doorknob.
The door flew open, striking the boy in the head and sending him tumbling down the stairs. He felt his back crack against the steps as he fell, sending shocks of pain up his spine. He hit the cement floor with a whomp, the impact robbing him of his breath.
The Old Man spat. “Serves you right, you little shit.”
The boy gasped for air. “Daddy…”
“I warned you, didn’t I? I need my shuteye. Didn’t I warn you?”
“Don’t.” It was all the boy could do to form the word.
The Old Man took a step down. “Be quiet, I told you. You know I told you. Don’t listen. Just like your mama. You don’t never listen.”
The man’s hands went to his belt. He undid it and drew it out slowly, making sure the motion lasted, making sure the boy saw what was coming for him. He doubled it over itself and made the leather snap.
“Thinkin’ maybe its time…”
“Daddy.”
“Time for you to go. Let me sleep. Leave me be.”
The Old Man took a step down.
The boy’s hand went to his head and came away wet. “I’m hurt!”
“Yeah,” the Old Man said. “Time.”
As he gave the belt another snap, the Old Man’s grey lips pulled back in a skeletal grin.
“Time to see your mama.”
He lurched down to the next step.
The boy screamed. And as he did so, he could feel the cold darkness gather around him. Pressing against him, urging him upward.
Whispers whistled in his ears, sharp and painful, making him wince.
Up.
Forcing him to his knees…
Get up.
To his feet…
Yes.
Pushing him forward.
Yes!
He felt the blackness brush against him, through him. Like silk.
Let…
Like breath.
Me…
Like death.
IN.
“Yes!” the boy cried.
The darkness chittered and caroused with glee. Blackness poured into his mouth. It flowed in through his ears, through his eyes, through his nose, burrowing deep inside. Filling him up.
With a final gasp, the boy breathed in the last of it. He felt the thing coil within him. And then, he was running for the stairs.
Peter yanked open the door, and the sight of the grey man standing below him on the stairs made him cry out.
The man, the thing had its back turned. A waft of charnel stench hit Peter hard, and this time he couldn’t stop his stomach from emptying.
He quickly recovered, bracing himself against the doorway. The man was solid one moment, shimmering and insubstantial the next. His skin was sallow as death. His clothes hung like rags from his withered frame.
He…it… Peter’s mind raced, for it was both man and thing at the same time. Living yet dead—here, yet not here.
“Time!” the man rasped. His voice was dust and decay.
Peter screamed.
The grey man lowered the belt, and to Peter's horror, he turned back to him. Saw him.
“Holy shit!” Peter couldn’t move.
The man’s face… oh, God! His face!
It was the face of a corpse.
He felt a rush of wind rising up the stairs. The man felt it too and turned.
A boy, no older than his Michael, leaped up out of the darkness and wrapped his arms around the grey man’s neck.
The step on which the man stood—the one Peter’s father had repaired but hadn’t matched—cracked beneath their combined weight. The wood split underfoot, and the grey man dropped like a condemned man at the gallows.
He fell fast, then stopped with a jerk.
The boy toppled back a few steps and grabbed hold of the railing, bracing his fall.
The grey man gurgled.
Heart pounding, threatening to rip from his chest, Peter leaned out to look upon the scene below.
Only the man’s head remained in view, held fast by a jagged piece of wood. It pierced his jaw from beneath and jutted from his mouth like a hook, dangling him, his feet kicking below. He tried to speak, but his dry tongue only clucked.
Then, he went still.
Peter looked past the dead man at the boy, who crouched panting on the stairs below. Their eyes locked.
The boy's mouth opened, and the blackness poured out, rushing, screaming up the stairs toward him.
It encircled him, smothering him. Pressing close. Squeezing tight. Smelling him. Tasting him.
Ahh!
Peter wrenched himself free from the thing. The next thing he knew, he was falling.
Peter roused a few moments later, coughing up dust. He was face down on the basement floor. His jaw hurt, and the palms of his hands hurt from breaking his fall.
The boy was gone. The grey man was gone. The broken step was intact.
“Jesus,” Peter whispered.
“Hello-oo?” came a voice from upstairs.
Hannah!
Peter scrambled to his feet. “Stay right there!” he called to her.
He bounded up the stairs.
“What the hell?” Hannah said, her voice coming from the kitchen.
Peter rushed to the doorway and stopped short.
Hannah stood with the coffee pot in her hand. The liquid had boiled down to sludge, and the glass was scorched. "Has this thing been on all day?"
He stared at the pot, seeing it shattered on the floor, seeing it whole in her hand.
“I…”
“What in the world happened to you? You’re a mess, Peter.”
He shook his head, trying to gain his bearings. “We’ve got to get out of here.”
“What are you talking about?”
Peter stepped forward and grabbed her by the arm. “Come on.”
He hadn't meant to pull her as hard as he did. The jolt made her stumble. The pot broke free from her grip and tumbled to the floor where it exploded in a spray of coffee and glass.
“What the hell?”
Undeterred, Peter dragged his wife down the hallway and toward the front door.
“Let me go, Peter!”
He wrenched open the door and pulled her out into the night. Hannah jerked her arm and stepped free.
“What is going on with you?”
Peter stammered, trying to land on an explanation and finding none. “Where’s the car?”
“Peter, you’re scaring me.”
He looked past her and found the Prius sitting parked next to a gnarled tree.
“What’s happening?”
Peter motioned to the car. “I’ll tell you. But in the car.”
Hannah glared at him but complied. She walked over to the car and got in the driver’s side, robbing him of the option to hit the gas and leave.
As Peter stepped onto the gravel drive, he realized that he was still barefooted; he also realized that the wounds on his right foot were still there.
He slid into the passenger seat beside her, closed and locked the door.
Hannah sat behind the wheel, arms folded. "Well? Spit it out." Her words were harsh, but there was concern on her face. This was new territory for them. Peter didn't freak out—he just didn't.
“I saw something,” he said, laughing maniacally inside because he hadn’t seen something, he had seen many, many things, each more horrifying than the last. “Inside. I saw something.”
“What kind of something?” Hannah asked. She was still holding herself tight.
“I don’t know how to…” He fumbled with his thoughts. His mind, perhaps unwilling to revisit the terror he’d just experienced, instead focused in on his wife’s
breathing. It was heavy and thick. Was that tequila on her breath?
Hannah reached out and put her hand on his arm. “This isn’t you, Peter. You’re…Jesus Christ, you’re a bit nuts right now. Hell, you’re a lot nuts. Just talk to me, sweetie."
He opened his mouth and felt the blackness laugh at him.
She won’t believe you.
“Yes, she will,” he said.
"Who will what?" Hannah asked. She touched his face. "I think you had a nightmare. I think you're still half in it. You're eyes…they don't look right."
“I saw a boy…”
Tell her, and she'll leave you. Tell her, and she's gone.
Peter shifted in his seat, and the absurdity of it crashed down around him. Not that he doubted what had happened—oh, no—it had. He was certain of it. But the insanity of trying to distill the encounter into terms his wife could digest was growing more obvious by the minute.
Keep it…
He felt tears well up in his eyes.
Secret.
“Our boy?” Hannah asked.
"Yes," Peter lied, and in that lie, decided to protect her from the truth. They weren't alone in the house. No, not alone at all.
His tears began to drop, rolling down his face with abandon.
"Oh, honey," Hannah said, dropping her guard. She leaned over and took him in her arms as sobs began to rack his body. "I see him every day."
Peter let her hold him, there in the car in the pitch black night. Then he let her lead him back into the house and up the stairs to the bedroom where he’d seen the grey man. And when she fell into bed next to him and her night talk commenced, he moved to the foot of the bed and sat there, waiting and watching. Keeping silent vigil over her.
* * *
When the first streaks of red began to lighten the sky, Peter rose, having perched motionless throughout the night.
He put on a pair of pants and shoes and fished the car keys out of Hannah’s purse. It was stuffed with one-dollar bills.
He slipped out of the room. Downstairs, he cleaned up the broken glass and mopped up the coffee, making sure to find every last splinter.
This task complete, he walked deliberately to the basement door and swung it open—musty air and nothing more. He took a few steps down and tested his father’s step. The repair felt stronger than the steps above and below it.
The Nightmare Room Page 9