by Rod Redux
It wasn’t natural.
In fact, it was downright fucking creepy.
“Let’s get those shots,” Allen said.
Dan sighed quietly and turned back to the Forester house, looking into the viewfinder of the camera. He filmed on the east side of the building for several minutes, working his way through the overgrown lawn, kneeling, sweeping the camera side to side, then dashing toward the house for a dramatic zoom in. Allen watched, pointing out some angle or area of architecture that might make for an interesting shot, but mostly just letting Dan do his job, lost in his own thoughts.
When Dan felt he’d gotten enough footage of the east side of the house, they moved on toward the back of Forester House, which faced north. All the filming he’d just done would be edited to a couple whip pans and establishing shots later, when they pieced the episode together at the studio, or not at all. You never knew what Raj or the editors would want to use.
The back yard was just as overgrown as the rest of the lawn, a rectangle of seer yellow grass interspersed with scrawny saplings. There was a shed and a guest house—or maybe it was what his folks might have called a “smokehouse”; it was a bit small to be a guest house, he supposed.
The outbuildings were at the edge of the yard, where the encroaching wilderness had nearly reclaimed them. Their roofs slumped beneath humps of gray moss and pine needles. A few saplings had taken root in the rotting banks of foliage on their rusty tin roofs, and a full-grown pine tree wriggled its way through the roof of the smaller shed, pointing a scraggly black finger toward the sky like a profane church steeple.
“I wonder what’s in those buildings,” Dan said. He started toward them.
Allen was examining the rotten cellar door angled against the back of the house. He stood straight as Dan waded through the lawn, calling out, “Watch your step, Irish! There might be an old well back here, hidden in the grass.”
“Oh shit!” Dan exclaimed, hesitating for a moment. “Didn’t think about that. Thanks.” He continued on, a bit more carefully.
As he strode toward the guest house—or smokehouse, or whatever it was-- a fat grasshopper leapt from the weeds and clung to his shirt. It stared at him nonchalantly, its eyes bulbous and alien, its mouth parts working on a glob of brown fluid. Then it flicked away.
It was the first living creature he’d seen on the property, apart from the filmmakers and the owner of the house.
The door of the outbuilding was off kilter, lodged into its warped frame so tightly it wouldn’t open. Dan put his shoulder to it and gave it a hard nudge, but it refused to give.
“It’s weird how these outbuildings are falling down, and yet the main house is almost perfectly preserved,” Dan mused.
Allen tried to peer through a window, but it was too dirty to see through. He wiped at the dark glass with his thumb and looked again. “All kinds of junk inside,” he said.
“I used to go exploring when I was a kid,” Dan said wistfully. “We lived out in the country then. I was always hiking through the woods that bordered our property. Sometimes I’d find old homes abandoned in the forest. Little farmhouses. Just two or three rooms. I loved looking through them. I found some old love letters once. Some lady writing to her beau, who was fighting overseas. I figure, from the date on the letters, they were from World War One. I’d find drawings, books, old clothes, toys. It’s probably a wonder I didn’t get lost out there in those woods, but I never did.”
“Lucky.”
“I always had a good sense of direction.”
Dan gave up on the door and walked to the second of the two windows. He swiped the glass and peeked in.
“FUCK!” he yelled, jerking back from the window.
“What is it?” Allen asked, jumping a little himself.
Dan put his free hand over his mouth, looking at Allen with wide eyes.
“What is it?”
“Oh, god. I almost pissed my pants,” Dan laughed.
Allen stepped between the big cameraman and the window and peered carefully inside. Just beyond the glass were the desiccated remains of what appeared to be a large housecat. It looked like it had died trying the claw its way out, its body contorted in pain, needle sharp teeth exposed in an eternal yowl of agony. Its skin had shriveled to its bones. Its eyes were empty black sockets.
Allen grimaced and turned to Big Dan. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” Dan snorted, embarrassed by his reaction. He wiped his eyes and grinned at Allen, cheeks red. “Oh, man… I stuck my face right up to the glass. I thought something was trying to get me.”
“Understandable,” Allen replied. “That was pretty gruesome.”
“Don’t tell Little Dan I screamed like a girl.”
“You didn’t.”
“Don’t tell him anyway.”
Allen laughed. “No problem.”
They finished taping.
2
Celiac sprue is an autoimmune disorder that afflicts people of Northern European descent. Being mostly Welsh and Irish, a fair-skinned and freckled man, Dan Stein was a prime candidate for the not entirely uncommon intestinal disorder.
Celiacs, as they liked to call themselves on the online support groups Little Dan was a member of, were extremely allergic to gluten, a protein found in many grains. Wheat, barley, rye… they were all verboten to the Celiac. Problem was: gluten was in practically everything, and should it chance to pass even the most careful Celiac’s lips, he or she could expect cramping, fatigue, bloating, gas and diarrhea. Little Dan knew that if he didn’t stick with a gluten-free diet, just ate what he wanted and tried to put up with the gastric discomfort, he could look forward to a rosy future of ever worsening health and finally colon cancer, so he tried his best to avoid anything with gluten in it.
He did pretty good when he was home. His kitchen was stocked with gluten free foods. Going on the road was his biggest stumbling block, because when you were on the road, you often had to eat in a hurry, and the States had very few gluten-free restaurants. Read: absolutely none.
He and Raj and Big Dan had eaten at a Chinese restaurant the night before, and he’d glutened himself. He hadn’t eaten any noodles or breading, but he’d glutened himself nonetheless, either through cross contamination or hidden gluten in one of the sauces. He’d broken out in hives last night, and he’d had an upset tummy all day.
As he helped Jane and Tish strip the dust covers off the furniture in one of the second floor bedrooms, he endured a long, gripping stomach cramp—beads of sweat breaking out on his cheeks and forehead. His gut gave out a wet gurgle, and he knew he was going to have to make a dash for the bathroom.
“Hey, Jane… I gotta drop the kids off at the pool,” he said apologetically.
Jane and Tish paused as they folded a large white sheet between them. “You want one of us to hold your hand?” Jane asked. She was still sore at him for teasing her the night before. Tish just smirked.
“I think I can manage it on my own,” Little Dan replied. He had just stripped the dust cover off an antique stick back chair and was folding it clumsily.
“You know Forester wants us to stay in groups,” Jane reminded him.
Dan made a dismissive sound with his lips and threw the folded dust cover onto the seat of the chair. His stomach twisted like it was full of hot greasy eels, and he knew he couldn’t delay much longer.
“Yeah, I know. I’ll be right back,” he scowled.
“All right,” Jane said. Not “all right” as in no problem. She pronounced it, “All riii-iiight,” as in don’t blame me if you get in trouble.
The only bathroom that was working was the one on the first floor, near the kitchen. It was in the corridor where Dan had seen the specter slip out of sight, but he wasn’t worried about ghosts right then… except maybe the ghost of soiled underpants.
He exited the bedroom, almost went the wrong way. The second floor hallway was a narrow corridor with few discernible landmarks, just doors-- sensibly shut—ugly red carpet and
floral wallpaper. “Oops! Other way,” he muttered, making a U-turn. He found the stairs and eased down them, clutching his churning belly.
No one was in the foyer.
Being careful of the soft spot in the foyer floor, Dan crossed the room and started down the east hallway, shuffling straight-legged, a look of intense concentration on his face. If anyone had seen him that moment, they might have thought he was working out some convoluted equation in his head, but he was just trying to keep his sphincter clamped shut. The only thought running through his head was, Please, God, just a few more steps. Almost there…!
He passed the open kitchen door, a closed door that connected to a walk-in pantry. He started singing the diarrhea song under his breath, praying no one was using the lavatory: “When your stomach kinda hurts, and your anus starts to squirt, diarrhea, diarrhea…”
He jerked open the bathroom door and stepped inside… and nearly tumbled down into darkness.
“Whoa!” he cried out as he fell.
He reached out instinctively and caught hold of a rail, saving himself from a nasty—maybe even fatal-- spill down a set of rickety looking basement steps. Even so, he skidded down three of the risers, his legs tangled, before he managed to arrest his forward momentum.
He blinked into the dark mouth of the cellar, heart racing, as he clung to the rail. The smell of damp earth and rot, the fetid odor of sour water, washed over him like the breath of a ghoul.
He hated cellars, had since he was a boy, when his older brothers locked him down in the basement and turned out the lights. He still had nightmare about that sometimes. His brothers laughing as he tugged on the knob, begging them to let him out, imagining all sorts of hideous monsters creeping up the stairs behind him.
He’d also shit his pants—just a little.
Dan carefully pulled himself to his feet. His dry throat made a clicking sound as he stared into the dark below.
Forester had given them a tour of the house, pointing out the bathroom and basement doors. How had he gotten them mixed up? They weren’t even on the same side of the corridor!
He didn’t have time to worry about that now. The contents of his bowels were threatening to explode from his bottom at any moment. He was lucky his underpants weren’t a dribbling satchel of shit already.
From below: a scabrous rustling sound.
Dan’s heart leapt into his throat. He stared into the dark, thinking, Rats… just rats.
He heard it again. This time a little closer.
It sounded… furtive.
Dan pulled himself up the steps and slammed the cellar door. He paused for a moment, squeezing his eyes shut, his heart knocking hard and fast against the cage of his ribs, then he opened the door on the opposite side of the hall. He didn’t barrel through like a fool this time, however. He made sure it was the right one.
Fool me once, you sneaky old house…!
It was a small tiled room with old-fashioned fixtures and a clawfoot tub, but he had precious little time to admire the decor. Forester had said this toilet flushed. For everyone’s sake, he hoped it did.
Dan locked the door and dropped trou. His bowels let loose with a long wet ripping sound.
“Oh, momma!” he groaned.
There was just a small stain in his jockeys, he saw. A bit of tissue would clean that right up, no problem.
Another tidal cramp worked its way through his guts, and he rode the wave all the way to shore.
“When you’re sitting on the pot, and it’s coming out a lot, diarrhea… diarrhea,” he crooned happily, swiping the sweat from his brow.
3
“Wait a minute. Are you saying we’re not going to document my experiences at the highway?” Francis asked with a frown. “You’ve never done that before.”
Raj had invited him outside for some fresh air, though what he really wanted to do was talk to the medium in private. Francis had accompanied the man outside, though he was still a little rattled, and now they stood on the veranda of the atrocious house he’d come all the way from Arkansas to investigate, looking out at the dense, silent woods. It was getting close to five p.m.. Afternoon was taking on the honey gold timbre of early evening.
“I realize it may seem like I’m trying to censor you, and I apologize for that,” Raj went on, speaking in his normal dulcet tones. Somehow, it didn’t take the sting out of what his decision implied. “I just don’t want you to think I’m trying to be some kind of dictator, or cast aspersions onto your claims.”
Francis swept his gaze across the overgrown lawn, watching pollen eddy like dreaming sprites in the lifeless breeze. He was tempted to pick the producer’s brain, but he couldn’t take the chance of exposing himself to the force that had attacked him earlier.
Not here. It was too strong here at the house.
Francis had kept his mind shut tight since the attack at the highway, but he could feel something prying at his guards every now and then, testing his defenses, trying to get in. It wasn’t a human presence. He was fairly certain of that. Not even close.
The thing that had assaulted him at the highway—and continued to test his mettle-- was alien. Inhuman and cold. And here at the Forester House, surrounded by miles and miles of dense wilderness, it seemed to come from everywhere. Blocking it out was like trying to hold his breath underwater, but so far he was holding it at bay. Thankfully, it didn’t seem to be as powerful as it previously had, when it caught him off guard down by the highway, or else he would have already left. Just as soon as he could walk without his knees buckling under him. Driven back home with his tail tucked between his legs. He would have warned the rest of the crew, but he would have run.
Perhaps it had shot its wad with that first horrifying attack.
He could only hope.
“You don’t believe me,” Francis said, not bothering to conceal his indignation. “Stop trying to sugarcoat it.”
“I’m really not saying that.”
“But you are,” Francis insisted.
He was frustrated. He was used to dipping into the thoughts of the people around him, stealing quick little tastes of their emotions like a psychic hummingbird. Their deeper motivations. The truths they did not wish to broadcast to the world. Bunkered inside his own head, defenses up, he felt like a man fumbling around in the dark. It was disorienting. Frightening, even.
“No, I’m not,” Raj insisted. “I believe you, Francis. I really do. I just don’t think our audience would. I’m afraid your story might come across as sensational. It could damage your credibility.”
“I think most people would give my story the benefit of the doubt,” Francis said, but would they? He had seen the way his teammates glanced at one another as he related his encounter at the highway to them. The entire cast-- people he’d considered his friends and supporters until now—all of them had looked at him with incredulity and suspicion. Even “flying blind”, his psychic abilities pulled in and locked down, their skepticism was obvious, and it wounded him.
Even Jane had poo-pooed him, treating him like a child who had gotten scared by the shadows in his closet.
Raj saw the way Francis’s shoulders slumped, and he patted the small man on the back. “I’m sorry if I’ve hurt your feelings, Francis,” he said. “I truly am. I’m just trying to look out for you.”
Francis sighed. He could feel the Forester House at his back. Its presence was like a cold steep drop into a shadowy abyss. He considered abandoning the shoot, returning home to Ruthie and their cats, but he did not want to leave just yet. There was a mystery here at Forester House. A dark and powerful one. He was curious about the malign entity that had attacked him at the highway. He wanted to know who, or what, it really was, and wondered if he was brave enough to defy it. If he even had to strength to challenge it.
Perhaps, he thought, rubbing the lump that still protruded from his forehead… but he would have to be prepared.
4
Tish was helping Jane prep the last of the bedrooms for the s
leepover segment of the show when she found the photo album.
She was not overly thrilled being assigned such a demeaning task. It was a little too much like “women’s work” to suit her, but Little Miss Smarty Pants had volunteered the two of them, and Tish didn’t want to look like a diva in front of the rest of the crew, so she had gone along with ol’ Plain Jane. Again. She’d even smiled when Allen asked if she minded doing it. “Sure, why not? I’m not too good to get my hands dirty,” she’d said, but inside she was steaming. In her opinion, she and dumb old Jane found themselves doing menial tasks like this far too often. It was sexist. And the worst thing was, Jane volunteered half the time. The stupid bitch.
Fuck this shit, she thought, flouncing the filth off an enormous book shelf with a dust cover she’d stripped from an antique vanity. She coughed and waved her free hand at the clouds that rose from the ancient tomes, her nose tickling. “We really should be wearing breathing masks,” she said for about the tenth time that afternoon, then she started sneezing.
Jane didn’t respond. It was always better not to. Tish was one of those people who liked to complain, and if she thought she had an audience, she’d continue to do so.
Jane finished stripping the sheets off the room’s ornate four-poster bed and inspected the mattress. Like all the others, time had yellowed it, but it seemed serviceable. Besides, they’d only have to use them for a few hours. She grabbed a bottle of Lysol and gave the mattress a good spraying down as Tish continued to sneeze.
“This must have been the master bedroom,” Jane said absently as she disinfected the mattress and pillows. “This bed is massive, and the headboard and columns look hand-carved. Beautiful work, really. You just don’t see craftsmanship like this anymore.”
Tish sneezed one last time, still swinging her sheet at the bookcase, and the fabric caught the corner of a book’s spine and jerked the heavy volume off the shelf. It hit the floor with a thud, spilling photographs across the hardwood floor.