Onyx Neon Shorts Presents: Horror Collection - 2015

by Wesolowski, MJ

  Upstairs, a short hall offered three different doors. One was the master bedroom, one was a bathroom, and the other was barren and washed in dusky light. The master bedroom was wood-floored, the walls mounted with prize deer heads and fish bodies, and the bed, a king, was made neatly, the top cover wool with a striped red and blue pattern. The old man said he washed all the sheets just before Jim came back up. Jim was glad for that. He already had too much crap as it was: When he first came up with the idea of getting away from the city for a while, he planned on taking one bag and one bag only; truly rough it, huh? But that didn’t happen. Not that it ever did. Modern society reminded him of a Lay’s commercial: Bet’cha can’t eat just one. Well, bet’cha can’t pack just one. You have your clothes, your laptop, your soaps, and sprays, and a thousand other things you don’t need. Creature comforts, they called them. Creature comforts aren’t a bad thing, but they sure are a pain in the ass.

  Jim sat one of the bags on the bed and opened it. His clothes. A dresser sat in the corner between the bed and the window. He tossed his socks and underwear into the top drawer, his shirts into the second, and his pants into the third. Next came his toiletries. Body wash. Shampoo. Conditioner. Deodorant. Toothpaste. Toothbrush. Mouthwash. Geez. Might as well open a pharmacy.

  Back downstairs, Jim grabbed his laptop and took it into the kitchen. There was a power outlet by the table. He unzipped the bag, plugged his charger in, and then plugged the charger into the computer itself.

  He checked his email (nothing) and logged onto Facebook. Sixteen friend requests, three messages, and five notifications. Jim moaned. Start a Facebook page, his publisher said, it’ll help you connect with fans, they said. Except, Jim didn’t want to connect with his fans, goddamn it.

  Jim closed the laptop and sighed. He had better things to do.

  In a pantry closet, he found the cleaning supplies, just as the old man said he would, and started with the kitchen, because why not? By the time he finished in the upstairs bathroom, two hours had passed and it was starting to get dark. In the living room, he threw a couple pre-cut logs into the fireplace and watched as the flames came to life. In a space under the record player, he found a cache of oldies. The Beatles. Tommy James. Frank Sinatra. One record stood out; the very last. HEADHUNTER it said over a picture of a metal skull with crossbones KROKUS.

  Hey, dad, I’m gonna put my cool metal album next to all your square shit. Is that okay?

  Sure, son, just don’t forget it’s there. One bad apple...

  Jim slid the record out of its sleeve and put it on the turntable. Hissing. Popping. Loud, riff heavy rock music. It wasn’t half bad.

  In the kitchen, Jim took a glass from one of the cabinets and a bottle of Canadian Mist whiskey from the fridge. As always, he failed to stop himself from looking over his shoulders, as if someone would appear from the ether and take his booze away. When they didn’t come, he poured it into the glass and returned to the living room.

  * * *

  Jim started awake sometime in the night, his chest heaving and his breath coming in short, quick gasps.

  Nightmare, just a nightmare.

  Sitting on the couch, Jim caught his breath and steadied his racing heart. The fire had burned down to embers and the record player was off.

  With legs unsteady, Jim got up and went into the kitchen. The Canadian Mist was on the kitchen table, half empty. He unscrewed the cap and tipped the bottle back. It was slimy and piss warm.

  Jim screwed the cap back on and started into the living room, but a crash beyond the cellar door stopped him.

  For a long moment, he stood where he was, his heart pounding inexplicably. It came again, a hard, metallic sound. The central heating system.

  Damn it.

  Jim went to the door and laid his hand on the knob.

  It turned in his hand.

  Gasping, Jim jumped back. The door swung open...

  ...and nothing came out.

  Heart rate in overdrive, Jim went to the door and switched on the light. A rickety stairway led to a dirt floor. Everything else was out of sight.

  “Hello?” Jim called.

  No reply.

  To be sure, he checked. The basement was empty. The guts of the heating system occupied one corner, its base a concrete slab. It looked clean and brand new. Jim checked it over and found nothing amiss. Then again, he had no idea what he was doing. Back upstairs, he killed the fire and went up to bed.

  In the darkness some time later, Jim laced his hands behind his head and stared up at the ceiling. The house grunted, groaned, and sighed under him. Settling he told himself. Sure it was. But Jim wasn’t deluded: It sounded creepy. Low, hollow, and drawn out. He remembered a horror movie he’d seen years ago. A woman was lost in the shadow corridors of an old house, turning left, right, trying to escape before coming finally to a door at the end of a hall. Inside, the door was dark, the hall light spilling over the bed. A hideous creature sat up and stared at her, moaning in just such a fashion.

  I’m going to twist your back like mine, the white-faced ghoul said with a horrible grin.

  Maybe she’s down there now, Jim thought, and forced a smile.

  A low, empty moan filled the house.

  Jim’s heart sputtered. That wasn’t a settling noise.

  Jim clicked on the bedside lamp and sat up.

  Something moved in the darkness below, a soft, furtive footfall.

  Jim got out of bed.

  The bottom stair creaked.

  Heart throbbing, Jim went to the head of the stairs and switched on the light.

  Nothing.

  He chuckled. Nothing. It was nothing. Of course it was. Why would anything be standing at the bottom, looking up at him with cold black eyes?

  You’re losing it, Jim told himself. Maybe he was. Maybe the grief had turned to madness. Oh well. The thought didn’t bother him. He imagined schizophrenia would be like a non-stop acid trip. Man, the things he could write.

  Behind him, the second bedroom door creaked open.

  Jim swung around.

  Nothing.

  Sighing, Jim closed the door and went back into the master bedroom. He laid down and closed his eyes, willing himself to sleep.

  Oops, I “forgot” to turn the lamp off. Oh well.

  He laughed.

  * * *

  The morning was clear and cool, the sky a piercing blue and the trees along the lake burning red and yellow. For a long time, Jim sat on the dock, gazing at the beauty of it all. Farther down the coast, another pier jutted out into the water. The McKenzies’. The old man said they were his closest neighbors.

  When he’d had his fill of the lake, Jim decided to go and see the cemetery. Getting up, Jim sighed. From here, the hill behind the house looked rather steep, its bare ridge line rising and falling like frozen waves. Also from here, he could see a path leading up, white against the pale yellow grass.

  Jim picked the path up near the side door and followed it up. At the summit, he stopped and looked out over the lake and the surrounding forest. In the distance, the Green Mountains rolled north and south. They didn’t look so green now; they looked yellow and brown.

  Nodding at the beauty, Jim turned. The hill sloped gently. At the bottom, three headstones occupied a flat space enclosed by a low stone wall. Jim went to it, climbed over, and stood before the graves.

  Bill Carver 1928-1979

  Margret Carver 1932-2001

  Jim Conner 1978-2017

  Jim blinked.

  Sheila Propst, it said, 1950-2009

  Jim chuckled. Insane, that was it. He was going insane.

  Back at the house, he made himself a sandwich and ate it at the table while checking his email. A literary magazine in California had accepted a short story of his; The New Yorker wanted rewrites; and his publisher was asking when he planned to have the book done.

  The book.

  Jim didn’t know when he was going to have it done. Sometime before spring. It never took him longer
than three months. This one, though… this one was more personal. His main character, a schoolteacher/writer, loses his beloved wife to cancer and goes through a long period of grief.

  Just like him.

  Reliving those memories, purging them from his system… he had no idea how long it would take.

  Might as well start, though, right?

  Jim opened a Word document and went to work.

  The air vents kicked on.

  Only instead of blowing out, they were sucking in.

  * * *

  The sound of a slamming door woke Jim with a start. His mind was muddled and his heart was slamming. What the...?

  Running feet. Clunk-clunk-clunk. On the stairs.

  Jim jumped out of bed. The hall light turned on. Jesus Christ!

  Forcing himself to be brave and manly, Jim went out into the hall.

  Nothing.

  He checked the bathroom, the other bedroom, his bedroom. Then he moved downstairs. Nothing. Nothing at all.

  In the living room, with every light in the house blazing bright, Jim tried to get ahold of himself. It was a dream. That was all. As for the light, well… he must have left it on. In fact, he thought he remembered leaving it on.

  Feeling silly, Jim went through the place turning off all the lights. At the last one, he lingered, listening. When he finally switched it off, his finger stung. Turning it back on, he looked at it.

  The tip was red.

  Looked like a… hickey?

  Jim shook his head. Crazy. You’re crazy.

  When he woke up the next morning, however, he didn’t feel crazy. The sheets were strangling him, were lashing his hands and his torso. He rolled out of bed and smacked his forehead on the nightstand. Fuck!

  Sitting there nursing his poor, poor head, Jim struggled to grab hold of his racing, blurred-up mind. The sheets weren’t strangling him. He was half-asleep and freaked out. That was all.

  Getting to his feet, Jim noticed a few drops of blood on the floor. He’d cut his forehead good. In the bathroom mirror, he determined that he wouldn’t need stitches but would need a Band-Aid; the cut was an inch across and fairly deep over his right eye.

  After attending to himself, Jim wetted a washcloth and went back into the bedroom to clean up the blood.

  It wasn’t there.

  For a long moment, Jim searched on his hands and knees. He knew he saw drops of blood on the floor.

  But they were gone.

  It was almost as if the house...absorbed them.

  Jim looked around.

  He needed to get out of here. Go into town and have breakfast or something, get some people around him. If he stayed alone, he’d go totally crazy, and the thought of that did kind of bother him.

  Fifteen minutes later, Jim was dressed and behind the wheel of the Jeep. Before he started her up, however, something caught his attention. It wasn’t anything drastic; in fact, Jim had to think on it for a moment. The house looked… different. All the way down the bumpy dirt road to State Route 10, Jim struggled to put his finger on it. Finally, as he turned onto the blacktop behind a logging truck, it hit him. It didn’t look as dilapidated as it had that first day. The paint wasn’t peeling quite as much, and the wood siding wasn’t as dark.

  Not surprising, considering it was dark and raining when he saw it that first (and second) time. Still, it didn’t sit well with him.

  Nutcase Jim. Voted most likely to take out the President two years running.

  Smiling wanly, Jim switched on the radio. Sugar Ray wanted to fly. How nice. Jim nodded his head politely until they were done.

  The village of George River sat on a sloping hillside rising back from the titular river, its main drag lined with quaint shops and cafes. From the trees lining the side streets, a white church steeple towered into the air, and several blocks south, Jim caught a glimpse of what he imagined to be the school: Low, two story red brick with a line of wide windows. Faye’s Diner, which the old man had mentioned that first time, sat across from the Union Bank. Jim parked at the curb and went inside.

  It didn’t look much like a diner (no counter, just tables and chairs), but the sound and presence of people cheered him. He wasn’t much of a people person, true, but he wasn’t a hermit either.

  Jim sat in a booth along the far wall, and smiled as a pretty waitress took his drink order. When she returned with his Coke, he ordered a burger and fries.

  Alone again, Jim realized for the first time just how tired he was. He didn’t sleep well either of the two nights he’d been at the cabin. Now, the combined weariness of two bad days weighed heavy on him. His back hurt, his neck was sore, his nose was beginning to drip, and a slight headache flared up behind his grainy eyes. When the waitress returned with his food, his stomach growled.

  He took the fries down first, with plenty of ketchup. Then it was burger time. By the time he was done, he was stuffed. He felt better than he had before, but he was ready for a nap.

  He paid, left a tip, and went back to the Jeep. Golden sunshine filled the streets. People walked aimlessly to and fro along the sidewalk. Jim wondered if there was anything else to do. An arcade, maybe?

  Arcade?

  Shaking his head, Jim got behind the wheel and started the Jeep up. In the parking lot of a five and dime, he turned and set off toward the cabin. Out of town, he realized something: He kind of dreaded going back.

  Crazy, crazy, crazy.

  Jim turned the radio back on, found a political talk show, and let the droning voice of the host wash over him.

  Ten minutes later, he pulled into the front yard of the cabin and parked under the drooping bows of a tree. Let’s do this.

  He got out, locked the Jeep (city habits die hard) and went to the front porch.

  At the bottom step, he stopped.

  There were muddy footprints on the stairs.

  Jim didn’t know why the sight of those prints sent a cold pang of terror through his body. The old man had dropped by. So what?

  When she stepped into the house and saw the same prints leading into the kitchen—however, he wasn’t so sure. Would he just walk on it if no one answered the door? Jim didn’t know. It was possible. Some landlords had no respect for their tenants. It’s my house they figure I can do what I want.

  Jim’s heart was racing.

  He closed the door behind him.

  His hand stuck to the knob.

  What the fuck?

  Jim pulled, and his hand came free. Looking at it in the sunlight, it reminded him of his finger: A red circular mark, much like a hickey.

  Sighing again, Jim followed the trail of mud into the kitchen. Here and there, he noticed, clumps of earth had fallen away, along with leaves, beetles, and earth worms.

  The kitchen was empty.

  Back at the front door, he saw a second set leading up the stairs. He followed it up.

  They terminated at the second bedroom.

  The door was shut.

  Jim’s heart was pounding so hard it filled his head. His stomach rolled.

  This is insane.

  Yeah. It was. Jim started up the last two steps, but what he saw froze him.

  Under the crack of the door, a shadow moved in front of the sunlight.

  Jim’s mouth went dry.

  Something was in there.

  Or something.

  Jim remembered the cemetery.

  Dirt. Leaves.

  “No,” Jim muttered, shaking his head. No. That was crazy.

  The shadow disappeared.

  Breathing heavily, Jim took the last two steps and threw open the door.

  Nothing.

  The room was empty.

  Save for dirt. And the smell of rotting meat.

  The closet door stood open. Jim went over to it and swept it with his gaze. No one crouched in the shadows. When he looked up, however, terror overcame him.

  An attic hatchway. The cover dropped into place just as he glanced up.

  Slowly.

  Delibe
rately.

  Something was in the attic.

  In fact, he heard it now: low, shuffling footsteps.

  When he threw open the hatch and climbed into the space above the second floor, he saw only a dark, swishing movement.

  He stayed there for a long time.

  * * *

  Insanity. That’s all.

  Hehehe. Insane in the membrane!

  Jim sat in the kitchen, gazing at the blank Word document, the black cursor flashing mockingly. He deleted the five thousand words he’d written the other day. They were no good.

  Later, as evening crested, Jim started writing something else, an account of what he’d seen and heard at the lake house. It was short, dry, without the usual adornments that marked his writing style. When he was done, he felt much better.

  Upstairs, he undressed. In the bathroom mirror, he looked terrible. Jim’s face was pale and haggard, his eyes were dark and sunken, and his hair was wild. It had been two days since he came home and found the thing in the attic. His sleep was thin and fitful, and woke even more exhausted than when he’d gone to bed. He spent most of yesterday on the couch, dozing, the thought of getting up and moving around so obscene he almost pissed on himself to avoid a trip to the bathroom.

  Jim looked away and stepped into the shower, letting the hot water cascade over his aching body. When he was halfway done, he opened his eyes and saw the swirling blackness near the drain. Not blackness, really, but darkness, like the dirt and grime of a long, sweaty day.

  He didn’t have any dirt or grime on him.

  It’s washing my energy away, he thought madly, sucking it down the drain!

  The thought was strange and wholly unbidden, but Jim cut the water anyway.

  When he was dressed, he went back downstairs. He was thinking of calling the old man and telling him he’d had enough. Boston waited. Safe, warm Boston. The only thing stopping him was the fear… nay… the certainty that he’d experience the same thing back in the city. Jim could leave the house behind, but he couldn’t leave his insanity.

  What if it isn’t?

  It better be. Otherwise...

  A loud bang came at the back door, startling him.