The Key to Everything

by Alex Kimmell

  Emily stands. Her shoulders straight, she marches up to this man who makes keys and asks one question. “So if you make keys that open things, can you get me to the place where my family is?”

  “I hope so.” Abram takes hold of her hand, and she squeezes it firmly.

  “Me too.”

  -49-

  Emily: Tidal

  The brown horde is no longer scraping around the house. Everything is still and silent. There are no small black droppings on the floor or dark little puddle stains marking the carpet. On the surface, nothing in this house appears strange or out of the ordinary.

  If a realtor were to walk a prospective buyer through the place at this moment, they would almost be assured of a sale. Not a picture hangs askew. Not a speck of dust on the banister or on the mantle. Dishes are all stacked neatly in the cabinets. Trash hidden away in the respective recycle bins, with lids closed. Light bulbs all screwed in tight, ready to burn at the flick of their switches.

  Only when walking into the living room one might notice a disturbing sensation, and the sale would fall apart. A familiar feeling of unease would begin to crawl up the spine into the base of the skull. It would move directly into the fear centers of the brain, releasing endorphins and the proto-human instinct to flee. The need to run, to escape, to get away from this bad place as quickly as possible.

  Sitting in the center of the white couch is a blur in the general shape of a man. It sits in one place but is not still. The black-and-brown tide moves over him in waves. Brown waves of fur ebb and flow where skin should be. Jagged teeth snap and bite the air in the shape of a human forearm, splattering drool onto the fabric of the sofa. A knee becomes a wretched maw searching for something to tear apart, quickly smacking shut as it is sucked back into the sea, swimming downstream to another body part.

  Down the hallway behind the couch, a door opens where, moments earlier, there was no door.

  The ocean stops rolling and freezes in place. Ears twitch and aim backward, but the man-shape does not turn his head.

  Abram and Emily creep slowly and quietly out of the door and close it behind them, where it disappears back into the wall.

  Sgt. Harmon opens his eyes. Two pure white discs with no irises stare out from between swirling claws and teeth.

  Emily and Abram run toward the kitchen.

  Sgt. Harmon stands, and the squirrels flow down from his body to the floor like a waterfall and sweep after them down the hall.

  Emily stomps and kicks through the wave to move forward, limping.

  Abram jumps, creating soft squishing sounds as he lands.

  Sgt. Harmon smiles and turns back, pointing a finger at the male figure.

  He opens his mouth and begins to sing, “Open yourself for me and let’s play for a little while….”

  Emily falls to the floor on the edge of the kitchen and is immediately assaulted by layer after layer of snapping jaws ripping at her skin.

  Abram reaches down and lifts her up, knocking away as many of the small beasts as he can.

  Waves of brown and black build higher and stronger, overwhelming Abram, pulling him down.

  Sgt. Harmon stands above the male figure and claps his hands once.

  The wave stops, ready for its master’s next command.

  Sgt. Harmon looks down and speaks quietly. “Where is he? I know you can tell me.”

  Abram shakes his head and smiles.

  “Open the door for me.” Sgt. Harmon kneels down, grabbing Abram by the wrists.

  Abram shakes his head.

  “Open… the… god… damned… door.”

  Abram shakes his head.

  “One last time.” Sgt. Harmon leans down, pressing his nose against Abram’s forehead. “Open the fucking door… please.”

  Abram closes his eyes and shakes his head one last time.

  Sgt. Harmon breathes in. He sits back on top of Abram’s thighs, and a deep chittering sound rises from deep in his chest. The brown-and-black wave swirls in a circle around the two men. It rises up high, cresting near the ceiling, hundreds of open mouths creating foam at the apex, beginning to crash down.

  Sgt. Harmon raises a tightly clenched fist high above his head. He holds it there, vibrating in frustration, summoning strength from some locked-away dark place. He waits to strike until Abram opens his eyes one last time. The fist moves too quickly to be seen. An ear-shattering popping sound fills the room, as the air where the hand used to be slams together to fill the empty space left behind.

  Sgt. Harmon pulls his blood-coated knuckles from the crater deep in the floor. His skin is covered in words and letters, dripping black ink that he smears up his forearm, creating a horrifying mixture of red and black. Edges of torn pages in the shape of his hand stick to the wet sides of his skin as he lifts upward through the crushed face left beneath. Pages slowly flap back down into place, forming the remaining shape of Abram’s face that now contains a blank void in the center. Sgt. Harmon leans forward and blows out a puff of air, ruffling the paper that used to be Abram’s head.

  “No.” The scream comes from behind Sgt. Harmon. He turns too late as the battery-powered carving knife digs deep into the soft flesh on the side of his cheek. The crazed squirrels crash down in a wave onto the remains of Abram’s head. Dust shoots through the air from the tearing pages at the side of Sgt. Harmon’s face. Emily pulls at the buzzing knife and drives it in again, this time into his shoulder. It slides in easily, spreading the pages apart, sending letters, words and phrases out across the hardwood floor. She slices at him over and over. His body crumples to the floor, spreading open in heaps of pages falling away from their binding.

  Emily drops the knife and sprints for the living room. She reaches the mantle over the fireplace and grabs the brown leather book. The clash and clamor of claws and teeth continue the relentless assault on Abram’s lifeless body, sending blood and scraps of paper into the air. Emily holds her breath, running back into the cloud of dust, swinging the book in all directions, connecting with whatever she can hit to clear her way back to the kitchen.

  More angry jaws find their way to her, ripping at her clothes, fighting to get at her body. She knocks away a couple, but most of them get through easily and begin tearing, bringing her down to the floor screaming in pain only a few feet from Abram. Her fingers grip at whatever piece of floor they can find and pull. She is now a mass of motion covered in open holes and blood. The abhorrent waves of brown and black begin shifting away from Abram’s lifeless form, heading to fresher meat, still alive and pumping.

  Through the rising red tide, the small morsel of Emily that remains pulls herself forward, thinking only one thought. Her bloody hand reaches out from the grim sea, missing skin and nails showing bone and muscle that should by all rights have remained hidden from view. The claw-like hand wraps the remnants of its fingers around Abram’s wrist.

  Using all the strength that remains in her body, she pulls the rippling pile rolling and screaming on top of her a few inches forward. A mass of red teeth and fur shoots into the air, slamming into the sliding glass door on the other side of the room, leaving streaks of blood as they slide down, lifeless, to the floor. The book lifts up, held by her ruined hand covered partially in torn, hanging flesh.

  She slams the book into Abram’s pale forearm. Shoving the book down where it dissolves into the deep swirling maze of the tattoo. Somewhere, a gear turns. There is a loud, bright pop of metal on metal as a lock clicks home.

  The wave is gone.

  Silence.

  Flesh is mended.

  There is no blood.

  There is no pain.

  -50-

  Emily: Reunited

  Emily opens her eyes.

  There is no heat. There is no cold.

  There is white.

  Only white.

  She looks at her surroundings.

  Details form.

  Outlines of shapes grow out of the nothingness.

  Walls.

  A desk
.

  A bed.

  A man.

  A boy.

  She calls out.

  Silent.

  Auden is just over there…

  in the wall.

  Jeremy is on the bed.

  They open their eyes and look back at her…

  sadness

  * * *

  Her face hangs in the black.

  If they turn their eyes far enough, they can see each other.

  Her mouth opens and closes, trying to call out to him.

  Nothing.

  He cries.

  No tears come.

  Jeremy hangs his head down into his chest again.

  His tiny hands ball into helpless fists, nails digging into the soft young flesh of his palms.

  Other Boy Four

  Other Jason walks through the wreckage in the kitchen. He kneels down next to the book of Abram’s face and flips through his brother’s tattered pages. He glances…a word here… a phrase there. Finding nothing remarkable or worth remembering now, he stands upright and heads over to a drawer next to the sink. Opening it, he shuffles items around inside, rattling and clinking. Finding what he is looking for, he pushes the drawer closed and walks back to Abram.

  He shakes the box of matches and stops. Thinking for a few seconds, he puts the box in his pants pocket. Kneeling down, he shakes his hands and closes his eyes. His finger sticks out in front of him, holds steady for a beat, and then pushes downward into the dead man’s tattoo.

  -51-

  Family: A Show of Appreciation

  Jason is standing in front of you. He looks exactly like your son, but it isn’t him. There is something off about the way he moves. Like he doesn’t know quite how to make his muscles respond correctly. Like an infant walking for the first time, teaching his inner ear how to balance.

  This “Not Jason” smiles at you. He slowly turns around with his arms held wide, taking time to stop and look at Emily. His eyes glance back at you, but he walks over to the framed black space on the wall with your wife’s head coming through the center. She smiles at him as he moves closer. Your muscles tense and tighten, trying to pull free and warn her.

  Not Jason reaches a hand up, brushing her cheek gently with his fingers. Her eyes widen with fear as she realizes this is not her son. The eerily familiar smile widens on his face, and he laughs. He puts both hands around her head and kisses her deeply, with his eyes open. She struggles to pull away, but there is no place to go. Softly he pats her cheek, before he turns and walks across the room.

  Reaching the bed, Jeremy has yet to lift his head from his chest. His body shivers with fear. Not Jason sits down next to him, putting his arm over the younger boy’s shoulder. He whispers something into his ear, and Jeremy lashes out. He whips his arms around, hitting and scratching at the impostor. Not Jason easily ducks out of harm’s way and stands up from the bed. Eventually, Jeremy stops his flailing and falls forward onto the mattress his body, quivering with shudders.

  Not Jason turns back to you and smiles. His hands reach up, and in a show of playful pantomime, he removes a non-existent hat from his head, flips it down to his waist, and takes a deep, long bow. All the while, his eyes never leave yours. He straightens back up and mouths the words, “Thank you.”

  Now he is gone.

  The three of you have been left in your bright white silence. There is no why. There is no how.

  There is only white.

  -52-

  Auden: Son

  There is a red footprint off to your left. After you blink, another one shows up in front of it. They don’t disappear into the white when you blink again. In fact, more of them are scattered all around. A single streak glides in a small line on the wall across from you. After the next three steps, you can only make out toes with a thick blob beneath them. It looks like the feet pushed up onto their toes to prevent making any more markings. They lead up to and away from Jeremy’s bed, heading toward the desk in the center of the room.

  One piece of paper slides across the top of the desk and stops at the corner closest to you, hanging over the edge. The whirlpool swirls of a small fingerprint bleed together, pooling into a deep brownish-red smudge. Part of the page lifts up off the desk in an unfelt breeze before slowly falling back into place.

  Looking down, you watch the footprints walking over. They step up until they are a foot or so in front of you before they stop. You feel air being blown up from beneath your chin. You hear someone breathing. A scent of sweetness reaches your nose that reminds you of sugary breakfast cereal.

  Jason is standing in front of you now. Oddly-shaped red patches cover his skin. Some of his hair has been pulled or has fallen out. There are small red beads bubbling up on his forehead. Looking him over, you can see them everywhere. You lean your head down toward him, but he shrinks away. Wincing, his head shakes, and he holds his arms out in front to protect himself. His body quivers and his teeth clench together with a sharp intake of breath.

  He stands away from you, breathing through his teeth, with his eyes clamped shut. You nod in understanding so he won’t fear you touching him again. Eventually, he relaxes. When he opens his eyes he walks back over and looks up to your face. There is a sad, frightened quality in his eyes that wasn’t there the last time you looked into them. He’s older now, much too old for a little boy.

  He pushes up on his toes again to get closer, so you lean down as far as the wall will allow. His lips brush against your ear and he jerks back for a moment, obviously hurting. “You can go home now, Daddy.”

  You pull back and mouth the word “No,” shaking your head back and forth.

  “It’s okay. I want you to.” Still beautiful through the blood and pus, his smile glows with the innocence and love of a small child, despite the tears and ripped skin covering his face. “Don’t worry.”

  “No.” Your lips blow the air out from the silent circle they shape.

  His breath tickles your ear. Somewhere behind the wind, you can hear a hint of your son’s high-pitched voice. “I don’t want you guys to hurt anymore.” Ignoring the exposed and tender nerves, Jason presses his lips firmly to your cheek.

  “I love you, Daddy.”

  The footprints disappear into swallowing whiteness. The glow burns at your eyes. You fight to keep them open, looking over at Emily and Jeremy. Everything shrinks to a pinpoint lit with an intense and unbearable brightness. Blind now, there is nothing left but white.

  You feel the hard edge of the wall sliding up your body. Tighter as it moves, you can feel the air being forced from your lungs. Your head feels close to exploding from the pressure building up behind it. Far away, a high-pitched ringing starts in a steady, long stream. The line moving ever tighter up your body makes its way to your neck. Your throat closes from the bottom, moving up over your Adam’s apple, squeezing the rest of you into your head, like an old tube of toothpaste.

  Your jaw gnashes teeth into each other, grinding bone into dust. Pressure beats at your eardrums until they explode. White claws at your eyes until they press from your skull, along with the grey matter of everything that makes up you.

  Other Boy Five

  Jabez opens his eyes on the remaining shambles of the kitchen. Sighing, he kicks the toe of his boot through the torn-out pages of Sgt. Harmon’s book.

  “You were so close, Gene.”

  He bends down, looking at the words on one shred of paper, and lifts it to his lips for a gentle kiss. His fingers carefully fold it in half, then over once more. He slides the page into his shirt pocket and stands.

  His head cocks to the side a bit, remembering something. He walks over to what’s left of Abram, pulls the matchbook from his front pants pocket, and shakes it. The rattle of matches echoes throughout the entire house. Through the walls, out of the windows, it goes on and on. An old woman down the street turns her head from the television set for a moment, noticing a strange sound floating on the air, before turning quickly back to her afternoon romance show. A boy paus
es and looks around before throwing the dodgeball into a crowd of girls on the playground at the school around the corner. A policeman stops his patrol car, looking out the window, listening to his gut saying something is very wrong.

  Jabez slides the cover open, pulling out one small, rectangular wooden stick with a rounded bit of white phosphorous on the end. Slowly he slides the tip back and forth along the edge of the box. A line of white smoke swirls up into the air above his fingers, hanging in space before a spark ignites flame.

  “Goodbye, Abram.” He drops the burning stick down into the hole spread out in the center of the pages where his brother’s head used to be. Instantly the paper catches, edges curling inward, turning black. Small, oddly shaped particles float up into the air. Jabez watches them dance and sway up near the ceiling.

  Inches before they touch the thick oak beams, the drifting ashes stop climbing. The pages below continue to burn, sending more and more lightly glowing pixies into the fray. They continue to climb up, coalescing into a dark orange cloud pulsating with the slow rhythm of a heartbeat.

  The amorphous shape begins to spin. From left to right, Jabez’s eyes cautiously follow as it rotates. More and more the pages burn, sending glowing ashes into the whirlwind. From its center, a funnel starts to descend. Twisting and turning, it whips about, lashing flames in every direction. Jabez jumps backward, narrowly avoiding a lick of fire just to the right of his arm.

  Abram’s entire body is alight, alive with waves of flames rolling, lifting the pages of his limbs into the air. Jabez turns to run for the door. Arms full of fire leap from the floor, flailing and stretching. Orange-red fingers lash out, grabbing at his fleeing legs.

  “No!” Jabez shrieks, reaching out, throwing everything his clawing hands can reach into the greedy conflagration. Chair plant bottle photo frame flipped over table sofa cushion…eating everything in its path, the blaze still comes for him. “I’m out!” he chokes through the thick, dark smoke. “You can’t have me!”