by Mr. Deadman
“Nah, think he’s sick of this shit. To be honest, I don’t think he wants to see you, even though he recommended bringing you in. Old ghosts, huh?”
“Yeah, something like that.”
“So you’re really still thinking…what’s that crap, super-na-tural?”
Reginald nodded.
“We got no fingerprints yet.”
“Listen, Andrew. I know you think I’m washed up, making shit up or something, but will you listen anyway?”
Andrew shrugged. “That’s why you’re here.”
“You see the board game. There are only two pieces in play. The rest are in the box. I counted. None are missing,” Reginald said. “One of them, the girl, I think, was lying on the futon, watching the two guys finish the game. She’s key here. She fell asleep. So, maybe one of the guys fetched the comforter for her. Thus my ‘monster,’ as you put it, was beneath the futon, watching. Once someone is asleep, he comes.”
“Damn, I didn’t think to look at the board game.”
“Yes, well, I think it couldn’t resist. It watched the two guys playing and drooled over them requiring their hands to move the pieces. They were probably tapping their feet as they laughed and smiled. This must have driven our visitor mad. So he couldn’t hold off any longer.”
“And all hell broke loose,” Andrew finished.
Two forensic examiners dressed head to toe in white suits entered.
“Let’s grab a coffee. What do you say?” Andrew asked.
“Sure,” Reginald said. The vodka was wooing him from his pocket, but some caffeine and a few cigarettes would have to suffice for now.
***
At the local café, Reginald ordered apple pie as well as a coffee. Andrew just had a coffee, black, which he had barely taken three sips from when he loosened his tie. Reginald sensed Andrew’s gaze on him, but he looked down at the pie, guessing he was two mouthfuls from its end. Its brown sauce ran down the side of his mouth.
“How is that on the diabetes?” Andrew asked.
“Fuck the diabetes. That’s some file on me you must have,” Reginald said, noticing a ring on Andrew’s right hand. Andrew must have received the ring with the red-and-white insignia in college or through his family.
“College football, state champions in fact.”
Reginald nodded, annoyed internally that his gaze had been spotted.
“Moving on,” Andrew said, “I must be honest. Last night, I went over some of your old reports.”
“Oh, yeah? I thought you already scanned them top to bottom,” Reginald said, taking a scoop of pie.
“You described the thing as having no hands or feet. How could carry out these gruesome murders?”
Reginald’s core knotted. He gazed off into the distance. Andrew, without hard evidence, would never change his opinion from the false idea of some deranged serial killer to what Reginald knew to be true. Turning back to Andrew, Reginald frowned. “We’ve been over all of this,” he said, unable to hold back one last attempt at deflecting the conversation.
“Humor me.”
“With its mouth.”
“How does it move with no hands or feet?”
“It finds a way.”
“And it goes for the extremities? The hands and feet?”
“Yes. After it kills, the hands and feet are the main targets. Also, it was short, four feet, maybe a tad under, real thin, like anorexic. I think—”
“And it wore a white shirt, that it?”
“Yes, a dirty white shirt, far too big for it, hung over its knees. But I was—”
“Man, you get some strange people out there,” Andrew said, glancing toward one of the servers.
Before Andrew could signal for the bill, Reginald banged the table. “Damn it. You still think this is a man?”
“I’m shooting straight. I told you we believe it’s a serial killer. Maybe he uses some trickery or he’s deformed, and obviously, he’s disturbed… Nothing more. I’m no longer interested in your theory of some boogeyman or demon manifesting itself under beds, or futons for that matter. I was hoping you might mention the killer having some type of weapon, but no, you got to say it’s a monster severing limbs with its teeth. I can’t use that.” Andrew exhaled audibly out his mouth. “Your perspective on the scenes, however, can still be beneficial.”
Reginald went rigid. His face warmed.
“Reginald. You admitted to it only being a flash. You can’t refute it wasn’t a man in some kind of getup. As for the height, well, you were scared. Maybe your recollection is fragmented.” Andrew was about to sip from the cold coffee when he stopped and released the cup. “You need to end this monster-under-the-bed shit. You are coming off unstable. Things didn’t end well the last time. People will talk.”
“Oh, and a man just hides and fits under a bed or futon so easily?”
“Maybe the killer sets up the scene to make it look as if he’d been hiding under the bed. Did you ever consider that?”
“Why am I still here? I told you the scenes are the same. Damn it. Get Johnson down here if that’s all you needed.”
“Johnson might not like you, but he still wants you here. I see why. Like I said, you’re sharp on the scene. But this monster idea is not helping us. We need to figure out how this whack job is getting this shit done.”
Andrew stood up and signaled for the server.
Reginald reached into his jacket and pushed his wallet deeper within the pocket. “I must have forgotten my wallet.”
“I invited you. I’ve got this,” Andrew said. “I’ll call you later. Start thinking how a man could do all this, and give me something we can move forward with.”
Reginald waited until Andrew left, and then stood up, his back creaking as he did. He lit a cigarette, ignoring the frowns around him.
I’ve tried the rational road, he thought. It led me nowhere. If you had seen what I had… The dirty, pale skin, the empty yellow eyes, the stained, razor-sharp teeth, and worse: the disfigured gray stumps this creature had. Oh, and how it moved—it crept, stalked almost. Shit, if you’d seen all this, then you’d know better.
***
Over two weeks passed before Reginald got another phone call from Andrew. Uneasy about what awaited him, he made his way to the home. Reginald entered the bedroom, only to be knocked back by the stench. He’d almost forgotten how bad some crime scenes could stink.
“We’re thinking it’s been twenty-four to forty-eight hours. Waiting on the final time-of-death,” Andrew said, handing Reginald a file.
Seventy-three-year-old Caucasian male, it read. Reginald looked at the body. The throat had been mutilated, and as for the extremities, only one hand was missing. “That’s odd,” he said. “Still, the same…case.” Reginald had decided to keep his own theories on the identity of the killer to himself. He couldn’t extinguish the flame of future vindication, however.
“Yeah, same,” Andrew said, pointing underneath the bed.
Reginald didn’t need to kneel down to know what was under there. He could already see the dirt lying on the floor.
“Wonder why he only took one hand,” Andrew said.
“Yeah, that is odd.”
“Well, I’m going to check with the guys in the living room. You can have a look. Shout if you see or figure out anything.”
“Will do.”
Reginald walked toward the bed. He stood over the deceased and scanned the room. The only window was open, but the curtains had been drawn closed. The room’s yellow light shone down, creating the illusion of warmth, but there was a chill in the air instead.
Reginald rubbed his hands together. He could barely hear Andrew talking to other officers in the living room. The volume of their voices kept decreasing, and then they were gone. A crypt-like silence took hold of his world. A low, monotonous ringing began in his ears, and he cupped them, then released, trying to clear it. It worked, but the peculiar dull silence returned. He turned to look out the bedroom door, wondering if Andrew and
the other officers had stepped outside.
A figure moved in his peripheral vision. Before he could turn, he smelled the pungent stench. It reminded him of the stink of rotten rats left hidden beneath floorboards; the smell was different and more overwhelming than the usual corpse. He could recall only one other time he’d experienced such a putrid odor. It was the time he’d seen the creature without hands or feet. His heart bounced against his rib cage as he sought the ominous shape.
There was no doubt it was here.
The creature sat on its legs, on the far side of the bed, staring back at him with crescent-shaped mustard-yellow eyes. It resembled a hairless baboon more than a human. Its gray skin shimmered oddly under the room’s light. It had neither feet nor hands—no, Reginald looked again to the right side of the creature. A pale hand was attached to its right arm; it looked as if it had been impaled on the bloodied thin gray stump that was the creature’s arm. The victim’s hand, Reginald realized.
Reginald backed away. The creature lifted its right arm and began moving it from side to side. The hand rocked unsteadily on the stump, testing the hold. The creature bared its teeth, and a strange thought presented itself in Reginald’s mind. Shit, it’s trying to smile and wave at me. It must have seen people do it. A frigid spike shot down Reginald’s back. He couldn’t believe what he witnessed. The creature, realizing it was getting no reciprocation for its efforts, shuffled forward. Its mood changed. A sinister grin overtook its visage.
The uncomfortable energy in the air was enough to shock Reginald into action. Adrenaline flooded within. He turned around. His large stomach wobbled as he bolted for the door.
After he crossed the threshold into the passage, he banged the door shut. He heard no audible slam. Holy shit, what the hell? he thought. Streaks of sweat began to pour down his face. He gasped for air while trying to calm down. Reginald knew he was out of shape, but the addition of fear made him light-headed. Instinctively, he withdrew the pistol he’d concealed within his brown bomber jacket.
Strange sounds pierced the bubble around him.
They became clearer. It was a voice.
“Reginald, what the hell are you doing?”
It was Andrew.
“Reginald, what’s going on? Why do you have a gun?”
“I saw, I… It.”
“The man? The killer?” Andrew reached for his sidearm.
Reginald couldn’t get any more words out. He stood frigid; tears streaked down his face while his body shuddered.
“Move,” Andrew said, then pushed him aside and opened the door, gun at the ready.
Reginald crumpled, sliding down the wall until his rear hit the ground. He saw other officers enter the room. Reginald could hear muffled voices, but nothing comprehensible.
Then, almost as quickly as they had entered, the officers left the room, glancing away from him. Andrew was the last to exit; his gun was holstered.
“Pull yourself together, Reginald. There is no one in there,” Andrew said, shaking his head.
It took almost thirty minutes for Reginald to regain some form of composure. He was sitting on a blue sofa in the deceased man’s living room. How he got there was still a bit hazy. Andrew sat opposite him.
“Your involvement in this is over. Damn it, Reginald. What the hell? If I’d known these murder scenes would push you into a panic attack, I’d never have allowed you on scene,” Andrew said, shrugging. “You’re not cut out for this shit anymore. You know you can’t have a gun. The last time you claimed to have seen one of these things, you shot Chief Johnson in the arm. Yes, I know it was an accident. But you panicked then like you panicked today.”
Reginald didn’t reply. He tried to construct a sentence in his mind, but all sense failed him.
After five minutes of Andrew lecturing him, he finally spoke up. “An-drew, I know—I know what I saw.”
“Reginald, you need to stop that bullshit. Do you want to end up in a madhouse? I’ve spoken to Chief Johnson. We both thank you for your insight.”
Reginald nodded.
***
A week later, Reginald phoned Andrew.
“Damn it, Reginald. Do you know what time it is? If you don’t, let me help you out. It’s a quarter past one. My wife is asleep next to me. She’ll kill me if I wake her up.”
“Listen, Andrew,” Reginald said. “I think they’re after me. They may come for you as well. I don’t think they like us knowing about them. I think this time we got too close.”
“Reginald. Please tell me this is not why you’re calling me.”
“I’ve noticed dirt under my bed. Not a lot, but almost like one of them is peeking in. Have you checked under your bed?” Reginald asked. He cradled his baseball bat in his lap as he sat on his bed. He wished he still had his gun.
“Reginald, if you don’t give this a break, I am going to come over there personally and drag you to the madhouse. Do you hear me?”
No reply.
“Reginald?”
“I hear you. Be watchful, Andrew.”
“Good night.”
Reginald heard the line disconnect. He placed his phone down and sat ready to jump if any uninvited visitors arrived. His bedroom light illuminated the room. He gripped the bat tighter as if it were his final tether to the world.
Old eyes grew heavy, and his grip weakened.
***
Reginald snorted.
He looked toward the bedroom clock: 2:05 a.m. He’d fallen asleep for nearly an hour, and he cursed himself as he searched the room, a room now draped in darkness—someone had switched off his bedroom light. Managing to make out the light switch on the wall across the room, he took a few heavy steps as the mattress sank in under his weight and leaped toward the switch. He wasn’t going to put his leg down right next to the bed.
Reginald landed heavily, feeling his old knees ping with pain, but he blocked it out and stood erect. He switched on the bedroom light and turned around with the baseball bat ready to strike.
The creature sat on his dresser, perched like a gargoyle on a building overseeing the city below. This one had hands and feet impaled on its limbs. It lifted one of its hands up to wave and growled.
“Holy shit.” Reginald swung the bat.
The peculiar gray monster moved too slowly. The bat crashed into its chest. Bouncing off the wall, the gray creature left strange splotches of purple liquid behind.
When the creature landed on the floor, Reginald swung again. The hit was a clean blow. Purple liquid splattered everywhere, some drops finding Reginald’s face. The creature had lost both its feet in its attempt to escape.
It tried to crawl back under the bed.
“Not this time.” Reginald brought the bat down on its head.
It stopped moving.
Reginald pushed the creature’s lifeless body to the side, wanting to lift the bed, to see if he could figure out how it got around. He placed his bat on the bedside table and lifted his bed up, causing his back to crackle. There was nothing but a pile of dirt—no mystery tunnel.
They must be able to open and close portals, or something, Reginald thought, placing the bed back down. He made his way back to the creature. Now, to figure out what you are.
Reginald’s gaze locked onto one of the hands still attached to the pale gray creature. A chill shot up his spine. He ignored the instinct to put both his hands in his pockets. Feeling sorry for whoever had come across this strange abomination before him, Reginald noticed the ring, which had a red-and-white insignia on it. No, not Andrew, he thought.
He marched to the phone and dialed the Washburn residence.
Their phone rang. No one picked up.
Reginald examined the creature, his heart pounding within his chest. It was too late to do anything for Andrew, but there was one more call he had to make. Fear and concern dissipated, replaced by the warmth of vindication. Reginald dialed Chief Johnson.
His phone, like Andrew’s, just rang continuously.
Reginald
shook his head. No, you lazy bastard. You will answer my call. I will be proven right.
This time the phone rang once before the line went dead. Useless landlines, Reginald thought and banged the receiver down. He cursed. The cell phone his daughter had bought him lay in the living room. An ominous sound, like a click, came from his left, and he focused along the wall. He saw the broken phone wire. It dawned on him that if the creatures had gotten to Andrew as well as Chief Johnson, he was next.
Carefully, he made his way toward the passage. His ears were alert and his eyes narrowed as he sought anything off in the room. His bedroom door slammed shut with him only a few steps short of it.
Stumbling backward, Reginald looked toward the bed. Dirt was flying out along the sides. He figured he’d gotten the creature that had switched off the lights. But another had then ripped the telephone wire and eventually closed him in. It was probably waiting for him in the passage. The rest were coming. He searched for his baseball bat and saw it on the bedside table on the other side of the room.
It was too far away.
The blood pumping throughout his body stalled as it froze, and he realized that once again these creatures would keep their existence hidden. Yes, he had been right. Chief Johnson and Detective Washburn had learned this the hard way.
There would be no vindication, however.
About the author:
Calvin Demmer is a crime, mystery, and speculative fiction author. He has had over thirty stories published in various magazines and anthologies. When not writing, he is intrigued by that which goes bump in the night as well as the sciences of our universe. Find out more at www.calvindemmer.com or follow him on Twitter @CalvinDemmer.
The Voice from the Bottom of the Well
Philip W. Kleaver
The voice started as a scratching in the subconscious. It was a disruption of order small enough to go unnoticed, like a beetle squirming through the walls of an empty home. The sound echoed in her eardrums and forced her sleep-heavy eyelids open. She glanced around her bedroom, heart thudding, the wan light of early morning not yet enough to banish the shadows. Anything could be lurking in the blackness shrouding her dresser, the rocking chair, or the closet door.