Into Hell

by James Roy Daley

  Stephenie whispered, “Oh Lord.”

  Then she heard that strange clicking sound again, the sound from the basement. She turned towards the noise, looking into a dark corner, afraid of what she might find.

  She couldn’t see much, just a shadow.

  The shadow moved.

  Stephenie’s eyes widened and she started babbling.

  “Oh I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be here. I was looking for my daughter and I knocked on the door but there was no answer so I came inside because I needed to use the phone but I didn’t touch anything. I’m looking for my daughter and I didn’t mean to disturb you so please don’t hurt me. I’ll go now. I’ll leave you alone and I won’t tell anyone about this so you don’t need to worry about me. Does that sound okay? I’ll just go. I’m sorry to have disturbed you. Oh God I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry. Please God don’t kill me.”

  The girl on the floor lifted her head.

  “Help me,” she said with a voice that was barely a whisper.

  Stephenie looked at the girl just in time to see Jacob yank her head into the air and smash her face into the hardwood.

  The girl screamed.

  And Jacob smashed her face against the floor again. Teeth crunched. Blood splashed.

  The thing hiding in the corner stepped from the shadows and Stephenie got a real good look.

  But that’s not human, she thought. And she was right. It wasn’t.

  The thing didn’t have skin or hair. There were no sexual appendages, no organs of any kind. Just bones. Oddly shaped bones that were connected together and twisted into strange and unlikely shapes. They were as thick and white as bones could be. The creature had giant eye-sockets. And inside those giant eye-sockets, long square teeth opened and closed very quickly, creating the clicking sound she had heard earlier. Perhaps the eye sockets were equipped with jaws, she considered, not knowing if it was at all possible.

  But its very existence was impossible, wasn’t it?

  Stephenie cringed.

  She looked at the creature’s face, at the ribcage freeway that sat in a mangled nest above the stalk-like legs. She looked at the creature’s hands: eight bony digits on each. And inside one was a knife that gleamed in the shadow like a sliver of terrible sunshine.

  The girl gurgled and whispered, “Save me.”

  And Jacob smashed her head against the floor a third time, harder now than before.

  Her skull cracked.

  Stephenie had seen enough.

  She spun around, grabbed the doorknob and yanked the door open. She had to get the hell away from Jacob and the impossible framework of bones. She couldn’t save Mary. How could she possibly do that? She didn’t have a weapon, assistance, or a plan. She didn’t have anything. And even if she did have a weapon, what could she do against them? The answer seemed simple enough: nothing. The answer was nothing. Jacob was huge and the skeleton creature wasn’t even human and there was nothing that Stephenie could do.

  Outside will be better than inside, she thought.

  And the very concept seemed like a logical one. But she was wrong. Outside was worse––much, much worse.

  The real terror was just about to begin.

  CHAPTER FOUR:

  Spilling Blood

  1

  Stephenie ran down the stairs and across the bungalow’s front yard.

  Denise Renton––the corpse lying in the grass––lifted her crushed head and grabbed Stephenie by the ankle as she flew by.

  Stephenie didn’t feel any pain, but she was thrown off balance. She slipped and tumbled onto the soft grass like a kid in a schoolyard. And when she lifted herself up she was facing the bungalow, and looking at the corpse. And it was a corpse. There is no other way to describe it. Denise Renton’s shattered head looked like a cantaloupe that had been smashed open with a boot heel. One eye hung free of its socket.

  The corpse grinned and pointed a bloody finger, and moaned, “You’ve been bad.” The phlegm-soaked voice sounded trapped inside her throat, trapped––like Denise’s corpse didn’t have enough, if any, breath to push the words from her lungs. And the words didn’t really sound like You’ve been bad. They sounded more like, Quoove beanbade.

  Stephenie felt a cold shiver roll down her spine.

  The big growl came again, not from the mouth of the zombie but from the invisible monster she could not see. She didn’t have a clue what the creature was, but figured it was more powerful than everything else she encountered. And it scared her. It scared her in a way nothing else could, for it was nameless and faceless, something that defied all physical boundaries.

  Denise Renton’s corpse grinned.

  Stephenie forced herself to her feet and ran. She ran onto the driveway and across the road, aiming straight for her car. That was the destination now: the car. She was leaving this screwed up place behind. More than that, she was leaving her daughter behind too. Right or wrong, that was the plan. She couldn’t do this any longer, and she couldn’t do it alone––couldn’t handle it alone. And she was alone. At this point, it was a fact.

  She didn’t slow down crossing the highway, but she did look in both directions. For a moment she thought she might get lucky. She thought a car might drift down the road and she’d be able to snag a ride, but no, of course not. The road was empty, completely empty. She could see an outline of trees at the side of the highway sitting near a farmhouse that was at least a half-mile away. She could see the moon in the sky, a handful of stars, the gas station and restaurant. Nothing more.

  Her feet moved her across the road and onto the parking lot; her heart pounded in her chest.

  She noticed something as she ran. Something was different; something was out of place. She wasn’t sure what it was and she didn’t have time to analyze.

  She reached her car, grabbed the door handle and pulled the door open. Then the information she was seeking emerged: it was Julie Brooks. Once again, Julie’s corpse was sitting inside the car, in the driver’s seat. Her head was leaning on the steering wheel; her eyes were closed. Blood dribbled from her chin in thick shimmering strings.

  Stephenie mumbled, “But how?”

  The corpse opened her flat, cold eyes and lifted a hand.

  Stephenie stepped back startled; then she looked across the parking lot nervously. There was nothing to see, but that didn’t mean much. That thing––that big, nameless, invisible thing that seemed as heavy as train and as deadly as a great white shark at dinnertime––it was coming. She didn’t understand how she knew this, or why, but she did. The ethereal matter was coming straight at her. Soon it would arrive and tear her in half like a rag doll.

  Her eyes shifted towards the bungalow.

  Denise Renton shuffled around on the bungalow lawn. She had bits of brain clinging to her hair and an eyeball swinging back and forth like a yo-yo ‘rocking the cradle.’ She lifted her pale hand and pointed a thin finger across the road.

  Stephenie could almost hear the zombie’s words in her mind…

  Quoove beanbade.

  Stephenie stumbled away from Julie Brooks, the corpse in the car.

  The restaurant next to her was looming, enticing her with a notion of safety and security it couldn’t possibly provide. But at this point her choices were simple: inside or out. She needed to make a decision and she needed to do it now.

  “Shit,” she said. And the decision was made.

  Inside.

  Even before she opened the door she knew it was a bad idea. If the corpse in the car––Julie’s corpse––had come back to life, what terrors were creeping around inside the building? As she reached for the handle she realized it was a mathematical equation: how many bodies did she see? Ten? Twenty? She didn’t know. But entering the restaurant was a bad idea, a very bad idea. It was a shame hanging around the parking lot felt like suicide.

  She swung the door open and bolted inside.

  Christmas bells chimed.

  There was a waitress standing at the door. Blood covere
d her arms and chest and it dripped from her mouth in generous proportions. Her name was Dee-Anne Adkins. A broken nametag hung from her shirt. It was cut in half, split down the middle.

  Stephenie raised a hand defensively. “Don’t,” she said, noticing Dee-Anne’s broken nametag.

  At the same moment Dee-Anne grabbed Stephenie by the throat. She opened her bleeding mouth really wide and leaned in.

  Stephenie tried to step away, only to discover she couldn’t do it. Something had gripped her leg, anchoring her to the floor in a most unforgiving way. She looked down, somehow more shocked now than she was before.

  Susan Trigg was lying on the floor, holding onto Stephenie’s leg like a football player aiming to tackle. She was holding on as tight as she was able, despite the fact that her brains were oozing from her skull. She looked evil, hungry, and alive––yes alive, very much alive. Her eyes were bright and knowing; not filled with understanding really, but filled with something nonetheless.

  Stephenie wanted to voice a complaint, a concern, a protest. She wanted to say, ‘Let go of me you crazy zombie bitch! Can’t you see I’m busy here?’

  She didn’t.

  She pushed Dee-Anne.

  Dee-Anne’s feet shuffled like she might step away, but her fingers continued to squeeze Stephenie’s throat.

  Then Susan Trigg––the zombie on the floor––lifted her hand.

  And Stephenie caught a glimpse of the future.

  2

  Susan Trigg gripped Stephenie’s leg with one arm while raising the other arm in the air. Her hand wasn’t empty. Oh no. The living corpse was holding a long pencil. The pencil was yellow and dull. It had thin blue lines that ran from the eraser to the sharpened end where the graphite poked free of the wood. It had the words: EMPIRE PENCIL CORP on one side and 2 HB on the other. And when Stephenie saw it hoisted into the air she knew what was about to happen.

  She watched a movie when she was a kid; couldn’t recall the name of the movie but she remembered somebody getting stabbed in the ankle with a pencil. At the time she wondered how much it would hurt in real life, because in that fucking movie it seemed to hurt like hell. What was the movie again? The Exorcist? The Shining? She couldn’t remember and the fact was, it didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was her personal safety. Oh sure, you could argue that Carrie’s safety mattered too. Sure you could, and why wouldn’t you? But the truth of the issue was this: Carrie’s wellbeing was getting forced into a lower position on the priority line because shit was getting ugly.

  Stephenie shouted, “NO!”

  Dee-Anne’s teeth snapped the air next to her face. Spittle speckled Stephenie’s skin, causing her to flinch and pull away as much as she was able.

  Then the worst thing ever happened: life imitated art.

  Susan stabbed the dull pencil directly into Stephenie’s ankle. The wooden spear plunged halfway through her limb before it snapped in two.

  Blood spilled out in a hurry. Stephenie’s eyes blasted open and she screamed; the word ‘NO’ became “NOOOOOO-UUUUUUUU-OOOOOOOOOO-oooo!!” Then she was dropping to the floor and away from Dee-Anne.

  Stephenie slammed against the tiles and felt the wind get punched out of her. And that was bad, but not half as bad as the pain in her ankle. Hot sweltering agony blistered up her leg and into her thigh. Her toes were aflame. Her muscles were contracting. Her body became clammy and moist all over, and for the second time in however many minutes she thought she was going to be sick.

  Dee-Anne looked down at Stephenie with anger and hatred embedded into her features like a jail cell tattoo. A little string of blood hung from her chin, swaying back and forth like a pendulum. It fell free and landed on Stephenie’s knee.

  Dee-Anne’s hands became fists. She lowered into a crouching position.

  She was hungry.

  Susan grabbed the broken pencil hanging from Stephenie’s ankle and wrenched it back and forth, causing bones to crunch and muscles to split.

  Still on the floor, Stephenie screamed, and squeezed her face into a ball as she kicked Susan away. She didn’t have time to cry or beg. She didn’t have time to complain about her ankle or wonder how the hell the doctor would be able to fix it. She had to escape the monsters before they tore her apart. It could happen. No, strike that. It would happen, and it would happen soon if she didn’t get her ass in gear in a hurry.

  She flipped onto her hands and knees and crawled away from them. Looking up, she could see another corpse shuffling from a booth.

  His name was Eric Wilde. He was thirty-three years old and wore a cheap, blue suit that made him look like a used car salesman. His tattered arm hung unresponsively at his side, broken in several places. Blood dripped from his fingers like cherry raindrops.

  Craig Smyth, the man leaning against the counter with his chest torn apart, opened his mouth and leaned forward. Blood poured from the massive hole in his front, landing on his lap in a wave.

  Dee-Anne staggered towards the counter.

  Stephenie couldn’t believe it. She was surrounded by zombies, the living dead, animated corpses––what were the odds?

  She figured the odds to be hovering right around the zero percent mark, maybe even negative one. Of course, she didn’t have time to figure percentages; she only had time to crawl around Craig before he blocked her path, which is what she did. Craig didn’t seem to be moving too quickly so she scrambled past him and made her way behind the counter and towards the corpse formally know as Jennifer Boyle. She tried not to look at Jennifer’s severed arm or at the puddle of blood it was sitting in. Not to suggest that the severed arm was worse than any of the other things her eyes were falling upon. It wasn’t. Things were bad all over.

  Zombie-Craig tried to stand, but was having a hard time managing it.

  Zombie-Jennifer, still sitting behind the counter, opened and closed her mouth like she was chewing on her tongue.

  Stephenie forced herself to her feet. The pain in her foot was still blistering, making her wince and squeal, making her want to cry, ‘why me Lord?’ But she only had time to pull her ass off the floor, which she did. She needed to see what she was up against. It was the only way she’d survive.

  Angela Mezzo, the carcass with the happy-face mug, began sliding out of her seat. And she wasn’t the only one. Everybody in the restaurant was getting animated, each and every one of them. Blood dribbled and bones creaked. Teeth snapped and eyes rolled in their sockets. Drooling zombies turned and moaned and lifted their arms hauntingly.

  Stephenie reached for the storage room door and slapped her hand on the knob. She thought the door would be locked, and maybe––she had to admit––it would be for the best. Just what kind of plan are you working with when you lock yourself inside a closet? And there was another thing to consider: could she lock herself in the closet? Did the door have a lock? Or would she be in there, holding the knob with her hands as blood streamed from her foot?

  Hiding in the storage room was bad idea, another one of many. But Stephenie had painted herself into a corner. She had nowhere else to go.

  On the floor, Jennifer reached out and grabbed Stephenie’s wounded leg, but thankfully not the ankle.

  Stephenie turned the knob; it wasn’t locked.

  Jennifer pulled on Stephenie’s limb, trying to bite her knee.

  Stephenie didn’t allow it. She kicked the attacker away and screamed in pain. She slid her body through the doorway and slammed the door shut. Tears were in her eyes and her mouth hung half open.

  She looked at the door.

  There was a hook-lock hanging from the wood. Why it was there, she did not know. Or care. The lock wasn’t great but it was better than nothing. It was the first bit of luck she had and for that, she was grateful. She grabbed the thin piece of metal and clicked the male end and the female end together.

  That’s when the phone rang.

  3

  Stephenie grabbed the phone without thinking. It felt warm and greasy in her hand. She said, �
�Hello?” Her voice was close to tears.

  “Mommy? Is that you?” It was Carrie.

  “Babe?”

  “Yes mommy, it’s me! It’s me! Don’t let them get me again mommy! Please don’t let them get me!”

  Stephenie didn’t know what to say or think. Things were happening too fast, way too fast. Was this really Carrie on the phone, or another imposter? How did Carrie get the phone number? And why was the phone in the storage room suddenly working?

  She looked down.

  She was wearing a comfortable pair of slingback shoes and pants that were snug around the ankle. She could see the broken pencil quite clearly. Its yellow painted wood was sticking out of her skin between her shoe strap and her pant cuff; she wore no socks. There was an expanding trickle of blood on the floor now, and more running from her wound. It was leaking onto her shoe and in-between her toes. Her ankle had already started to darken and bloat.

  “Mommy?”

  Stephenie didn’t respond. She was thinking about her foot rather than the phone call. She couldn’t help it. The pencil was sticking out of her foot like a candle in a birthday cake.

  “Mommy? Are you there? Talk to me!”

  “It’s me, Carrie,” Stephenie said, snapping her eyes away from her wound. “It’s me! I’m here! Is that really you?”

  Carrie began crying and crying.

  Yes, Stephenie decided. She was talking with Carrie on the phone. But oh, there were questions, so many questions. She had an ever-growing list of them that couldn’t possibly be answered in a simple phone call.

  She said, “Carrie, are you alright? Are you hurt?”

  The answer she received wasn’t what she anticipated, or wanted. For some reason, she expected good news. She thought Carrie would say she was doing just fine but would like to get going now. She expected Carrie to explain that she was a little afraid but everything was going to be okey-dokey because after all, she was just a little kid and things are supposed to be great for children. She wanted to enjoy a laugh or two with her daughter, followed by a cute little statement that would make Stephenie grin from her to ear.