Into Hell

by James Roy Daley

  Christina stepped into view. She said, “She’s not here, Stephenie! Carrie’s not here!” She sounded completely crazy.

  Anne poked her head into Stephenie line of vision. In a different set of circumstances she would have looked hilarious. “You don’t want to go to the basement, Stephenie! Nothing good happens in the basement!”

  “No,” Christina agreed. “The basement’s bad!”

  Stephenie, holding the handrail for balance, was desperate for help. She begged, “Well... can I use the phone?”

  “Oh gosh-golly, girly-girl,” Anne said, tilting her head to one side. “We don’t have a phone!”

  Christina grinned. “Bye, bye. And good luck.”

  And with that, Blair slammed the door.

  CHAPTER SIX:

  The Nightmare Continues

  1

  Stephenie banged on the door three times with her fist before she spun around and cursed out loud. Her knuckles throbbed slightly as they turned red, not that she noticed, or cared. She was too busy being worried for her wellbeing, and it was more than safe to say she didn’t like being outside at all, so she banged on the door one last time with the palm of her hand.

  Nobody answered her call, which she had to admit wasn’t surprising.

  Looking down, she saw the hatchet sitting by her feet, lying on the porch like a premonition.

  “Oh God,” she whispered.

  The very notion of picking the object up was a statement.

  She wasn’t about to chop wood, was she? No, of course not. So picking the object up meant what, exactly? Oh, she knew. It made her stomach churn but she knew. Picking the axe off the ground meant using it defensively, as a weapon. Could she do it? Could she hack her way through a bunch of zombies if they attacked? Could she slice somebody’s face open or bludgeon the back of some guy’s head? Was that her future? Did she have a choice?

  She looked across the grassy field, eyeing the restaurant meticulously. The field seemed to be empty now. There were no zombies coming this way or that, no zombies hanging around the restaurant door either.

  This was good, she recognized. Her spirits lifted slightly.

  She could see the sign that said KING’S DINER overlooking the parking lot and the gas pumps. She could see her car sitting alone; the headlights were off, the doors were closed. It looked far away; everything seemed far away. Getting to her car by foot was going to hurt, but what other options did she have? None. Unless she considered banging on the door for the next ten minutes an option, which needless to say wasn’t the case. Looking at the bright side of things, not getting attacked by zombies made the moment undeniably better. It also made the task of arming herself easier to handle. At least she wasn’t grabbing the axe and using it, which seemed like a real possibility when Blair was tossing her out the front door like a bag of yesterday’s garbage.

  She turned partway around, ring finger between her teeth, eyebrows lopsided. She looked at the door one final time, cursing under her breath. Blair and his asshole family weren’t going to open it for her; that much was obvious. And if they did open the door they wouldn’t treat her nicely. Where that left her, she did not know.

  And where was Carrie? Was she in the farmhouse? Yes or no?

  The answer was inconclusive.

  With a squint of her eyes, Stephenie pulled her finger away from her mouth and crouched down. She picked the hatchet off the porch and gripped it firmly, trying to make it feel comfortable in her hand. It didn’t. The hatchet felt as foreign and unfamiliar as it possibly could. Chopping wood (or anything else for that matter) wasn’t something she did often. In fact, she couldn’t recall doing it once in her whole entire life.

  She ran a finger along the blade. She wasn’t sure why. Just checking, she supposed. The blade was sharp; it sliced her skin open before she knew it would happen. Surprised by her self-inflicted wound, she pulled her hand away from the hatchet. A drop of blood fell from her thumb, landing on her foot.

  Damn thing’s sharp enough to split hairs.

  She made her way down the steps with her thumb in her mouth, tasting blood on her tongue. She lifted the flashlight from the garden and stood there, looking around with her eyes wide and face washed in fear, like a child separated from the grown-ups at the mall, like a puppy tied to a pole on a busy street corner, looking for its master. After a moment she limped towards the stone pebble driveway, clicked the light on and sniffed back the liquid that was threatening to leak from her nose.

  The light worked just fine. Again, for this she was thankful.

  She walked, fighting through the pain, following the beam of light that illuminated her way. The pain in her ankle wasn’t a searing hot poker scorching her bones. It was a slow roasting agony slugging along inside her flesh. It was an ugly brand of misery that didn’t let up. In time, standing on her wounded foot felt no different than not standing on it. Her senses didn’t grow numb exactly, but the pain was becoming a throbbing constant that seemed as endless and relentless as the sky, the sky above the sky, and everything else that came after that. Across the short grass and into the field she went, holding the flashlight tight and the hatchet tighter. Her eyes shifted left and right nervously. The grass swayed in slow moving waves. Some of the grass was still green, but the August sun had baked much of the grass until it had turned dry and brown. She half-expected a zombie to jump out of the field screaming GOTCHA as it waved its hands over its head and made stupid faces. Wouldn’t happen though. Even she knew that. Still, she felt nervous. And not having a plan wasn’t helping her frame of mind in the slightest.

  So, what is the plan? she wondered.

  Stephenie released a sharp squeal as she stepped on a ridge of dirt awkwardly. Her face pinched into a ball. Her eyes squeezed tight.

  She kept moving.

  The plan, she supposed, was to retreat. She needed to return to her car and start driving. Obviously she didn’t want to leave her daughter, but she didn’t know where else to look, or what else to do. And it was dangerous here, too dangerous to leave Carrie––yeah, sure. But it was also too dangerous to keep up this one-person rescue mission she found herself submerged in. She needed help, lots of it. The sooner she got it the better. Was she scared? Yes, of course she was. But fear wasn’t the only emotion pushing her buttons. Carrie wasn’t in the restaurant, or in the bungalow across the street. As far as Stephenie could tell Carrie wasn’t inside the farmhouse either. And if she was inside the farmhouse, Blair, Anne, and Christina, weren’t about to give her the opportunity to search the place––that much was for damn sure. Hell, Carrie wasn’t even in the baffroom, as that crazy witch-voice inside her mind was suggesting. And where the hell did that voice come from anyways? She didn’t recognize that voice. So what was the deal there?

  Another mystery, she supposed, another, in a long line of mysteries.

  Halfway to the restaurant, Stephenie tucked the flashlight beneath her arm. She checked her left pocket. No keys. She shuffled the hatchet from one hand to the other and checked the right pocket.

  No keys again.

  “Oh no,” she whispered.

  Stephenie looked over both shoulders slowly, quietly. There was nothing in front of her, nothing behind her. Feeling reasonably sure she wasn’t about to be attacked, she sat the hatchet and the flashlight at her feet and checked her pockets more thoroughly––front and back.

  She didn’t have them. Her keys were gone.

  Instead of screaming in frustration––which Lord knows, she wanted to do––she tapped her fingertips against her forehead, fluttered her eyelashes and tried not to cry. Her breath was unsteady; her bottom lip found its way between her teeth.

  What was she going to do? That was the question that needed answering. Without her car keys she wasn’t going anywhere quickly. Without her keys, she was fucked.

  She looked into the parking lot.

  Still no sign of zombies. For the time being she was safe.

  She looked at the highway, still no ca
rs. Not one. Not even a friggin’ motorcycle to wave down. Her luck was unbelievable.

  The keys must be in my purse, she thought as her eyes shifted towards her car. But where was her purse? Did she leave it in the car? Maybe. No, not maybe. Yes––now that she thought about it––yes, her purse was in her car, sitting on the backseat. But it didn’t matter. Her keys weren’t in her purse, she put them into her pocket; she knew it. That meant they were now lost.

  Damn.

  She checked her pockets one final time, nothing of course––nothing but a small amount of pocket-change, a little bit of lint, a half-empty pack of matches, and a stick of gum with a loose wrapper.

  She crouched down, lifted the flashlight and the hatchet and kept walking.

  Her ankle squished; her teeth squeezed together.

  Looking at her car, she wondered if the Julie-zombie was waiting inside of it, grinning like a manic with her head smashed apart and blood dripping from her chin. She hoped not. God, she really, really, hoped not––but if Julie was there, what then? She couldn’t run; she couldn’t fight.

  Stephenie looked at the hatchet, tightening her grip as she eyed the blade.

  Although she had never been in a battle before, not a real one anyhow, maybe she could fight. Yes, yes. That was an intriguing thought now, wasn’t it? It would be a whole lot different than the hair pulling, face slapping, shin kicking spats she found herself engaged in back in grades four, five and six. But the basic concept was the same: defend yourself while manufacturing an offensive strike.

  Walking, limping. She arrived at the parking lot limping, always limping.

  Still no zombies…

  She approached her car and turned off the flashlight.

  The car was empty. The doors, she soon discovered, were locked. And on the backseat was her purse. It was right where she left it: lying on its side with its contents spilled across the seat.

  After a few moments of having her face smooched against the glass, she stepped away from the car and looked across the road, eyeing the bungalow. The corpse in the bungalow’s front yard was gone now. Everything was quiet. The wind hardly blew at all. And as strange as it may seem, it was then––in her moment of serenity––that something terrible occurred to her. Today was the day she might actually die.

  2

  A crow flew overhead, circled the parking lot, and landed on the gas pump. It cawed, shuffled from on end of the pump to the other and flew off. Stephenie watched it go as she approached the restaurant, which seemed to have the insanity drained out of it. All things considered, this was a good thing, a great thing––perhaps the best news of the day.

  Looking through the restaurant’s big windows, Stephenie came to the conclusion that the building was empty; the zombies were gone. The idea of stepping inside the building seemed ridiculous, of course. (Cyanide, anyone? It’s free!) But the idea hanging around the front of the restaurant seemed equally as bad.

  Out of the frying pan and into the fire was the expression that came to mind. If she only knew which was which, the decisions may have come easier.

  Where were her keys?

  That was a question that felt all too important. Keys meant choices; no keys meant: no choices.

  If they were inside her purse, she might as well smash a car window and get on with it. But the fact was, she didn’t think they were there. She didn’t remember tossing her keys into her purse; she remembered cramming them into her pocket, and figured they were lost during a battle.

  Maybe near the restaurant’s side door?

  She walked to the side of the building. Upon arriving, she clicked the flashlight on once again. Shining the flashlight into the grass, she inched ahead, leaving a little trail of blood where it fell. She couldn’t see anything. No. That wasn’t right. She could see a fair amount of blood, little pieces of flesh and a tattered piece of clothing, but no keys. She kept looking; still, she found nothing. So what did it mean? Were the keys in one of the bathrooms, or in that little closet behind the counter?

  Maybe. Truth was, she didn’t know.

  This isn’t fun anymore, she thought. But it was a stupid thought, a preposterous thought. There hadn’t been a moment of fun since before she parked the car.

  In her mind’s eye she visualized the way she’d been sitting inside the storage room. Did her keys fall from her pocket while she was sprawled out on the floor?

  Again, she didn’t know. But maybe.

  Stephenie returned to the front of the building, leaning against the building’s wall for support. She looked through the big windows. Then, shaking her head in disgust, she shuffled to the front door. Yes, the idea of limping towards the highway and either A) waiting for a car, or B) walking to - wherever - occurred to her. But she couldn’t walk much farther and she hadn’t seen a car driving along that road since she arrived so, right or wrong, she made her way to the door. And opened it.

  And stepped inside.

  Overhead, the bells chimed, making Stephenie cringe. She had forgotten about them completely. Hearing them now didn’t remind her of Christmas; they reminded her of a dinner bell, as in: SOUP’S ON! COME AND GET IT!

  It was a shame she felt like the main course.

  The restaurant was empty. No screaming zombies. No dead bodies. Nothing. Well no, not nothing––there was still blood on the floor, the walls, the tables, chairs, and everywhere else she looked. Plus the room looked different: the walls were darker, the tables and chairs were darker, the air felt heavier and tasted sour.

  That was something wasn’t it?

  She made her way to the counter, being careful where she stepped, not wanting to slip in the blood. She remembered the impossible things that happened the last time she entered the restaurant, and pushed her thoughts away. She placed her knuckles on the countertop; then using it as a crutch, she hobbled past the sink and the stoves, towards the storage room door. Her hand touched something that gleamed. It was a knife, a butter-knife. She picked it up and stuck it in her back pocket without hesitation, just in case. And yes, even then she knew she could find a sharper tool if she took a moment to look, but she wasn’t going to. Did she expect to use the knife? No, of course not. Why would she? She had a hatchet sharper than a scalpel, so the butter knife was for backup. If she got desperate enough, she might even use it.

  Stephenie tucked her flashlight beneath her arm while approaching the storage room. She took a deep breath, placed her hand on the doorknob, opened the door, and looked inside.

  “Oh shit,” she whispered into the mouth of madness. “This can’t be here. This can’t be happening!”

  But it was happening.

  It really was.

  3

  At first, she thought she was seeing it wrong. Because, well… because seeing it wrong was the only thing that made a lick of sense. But after rubbing her forehead with her fingers and thumb, like someone stressed beyond repair, she opened her eyes real wide and knew––beyond a shadow of a doubt––that she wasn’t seeing it wrong. She was seeing it the only way she could see it.

  She took a step forward, followed by another. She flicked the overhead light on and limped another foot.

  Her fingers found her throat, which suddenly seemed very dry.

  There was a staircase, a big wooden one that descended into darkness. It looked like something you’d find inside a haunted house (she couldn’t help thinking how well the description fit the situation). The storage room had a staircase, on loan from Dracula’s castle. Awesome.

  You don’t want to go to the basement Stephenie. Nothing good happens in the basement. The basement’s bad. You know that, right girly-girl? Sure you do.

  Everybody knows the basement is bad news.

  Was the staircase there before?

  No, it wasn’t.

  Could she have missed it somehow? Lord, no. It was huge, took up the whole room. It had two big Victorian handrails curving away from each other, leading into a gloom that seemed to have no end. Each stair was a
t least four feet wide. The wood looked like oak, maybe mahogany. There was no dust on the staircase, no bloody footprints or body parts strewn across it either. It was just a staircase, a simple and impossible staircase that shouldn’t have been there.

  As Stephenie was sizing it up, the storage room door, which was now behind her, creaked. It slammed shut with a TWHACK, rattling in its casing as the little hook-lock danced around freely.

  She screamed, spinning quickly as her eyes bulged from her head. The flashlight dropped to the floor and rolled to the edge of the staircase, almost tumbled down the stairs. The hatchet knocked against her knee.

  Oh God, she was locked in. She knew it!

  She banged her fists against the wood. BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG. She grabbed the doorknob and gave it a turn. It never occurred to try the knob before pounding on the wood, which was the logical thing to do. It also never occurred to her that opening the door might have been a big mistake, not that it mattered. The door was locked, as she knew it would be. The knob wouldn’t turn; there was nothing she could do about it. Or was there? She had a hatchet. Maybe she could chop the fucker down.

  “Shit!” She screamed.

  Then, with the curse still touching her lips, the phone rang, causing her to yelp.

  She looked at the phone with her eyes wide and her muscles tense.

  It was hanging off the wall the same way it had been for the past fifty years or more. It was an old black thing, greasy and forgotten, in need of being replaced––or more accurately, thrown away.

  It rang a second time, and Stephenie didn’t hesitate to lift the receiver. When she put it to her ear she heard a voice that sounded like it belonged to Blair. “Don’t go in the basement, Stephenie. Don’t even think it. Bad things happen in the basement. And when bad girls like you go into places they shouldn’t be, they get what they deserve.”

  A question snuck out: “What did you say?”

  “You heard me, you fucking psycho cunt. You heard every last word.”