The Punished

by Peter Meredith

  They all seemed so small, even Matt.

  They were like children. Curt lingered in Amber's room and stared the longest at her slim form. She was closest to him in size and it was easy to imagine himself under those covers, thinking he was safe by virtue of a single sheet and a thin blanket. The idea was ludicrous. And he went cold picturing the creature coming into his room at night standing over him just as he stood over Amber.

  There was no safety under those covers. The creature got off on the fear it caused and in his mind's eye, he pictured Mr. Havacheck as he looked in his photo, standing over his victims. The children would've been even smaller than they were and probably more terrified. How long did he keep them alive, Curt wondered. How long was he content to watch them crying miserably, their little bodies shivering with fright beneath their covers, before his perverted need would drive him into a frenzy?

  Feeling a little sick, Curt left the room, heading for the stairs. There was something down in the kitchen that had to be done.

  The basement door had to be closed. It wasn't just that he wanted it closed, Curt needed it closed on a very basic level. Every second or so since he got out of bed, he had pictured the utter blackness of the basement he had seen through the mudroom door. The creature lurked down there in that blackness and Curt feared greatly that the thing would wander up at anytime, attracted by the light. With all his heart, he felt that the door had to be closed.

  He just wished that he didn't have to do it alone. As he had ghosted from room to room, he had wanted desperately to wake the other children and have them come with him to shut the basement door, but an insidious voice had stopped him.

  "I say we tie him up and throw him into the basement," the voice, one that sounded like Paul's whispered in his mind. A mental picture came with the voice as well. One in which the other children, driven by anger over what he had done to Miss Feanor and her children, attacked him in the mudroom just as he was about to shut the door and threw him into the basement. He had to fight his imagination to stop the vision from going further; he knew that if he didn't, there would be no way he could go on.

  And so he slowly and warily made his way to the kitchen...alone, stopping frequently to gauge the mood of the house. His steps were measured, delicate even and the realization that he was now practically as quiet as Matt came over him.

  The thought gave him a little boost of courage and it couldn't have come at a better time, because just then, he stepped into the main hall and looking down its length, saw the mudroom door still standing open. Though he had expected exactly this, the sight nevertheless jarred him, causing him to hesitate as cold sweat broke out down his back.

  Why are you doing this? He asked himself.

  For a long moment, he considered heading up to his room to hide once again like the others. However, a quick touch of the wall reassured him that the house was not stirred angrily in any great way and steeling himself, he pressed forward to the kitchen with a heavily beating heart.

  Without Miss Feanor, sitting in her customary chair the room seemed lonely. The cookbooks sat lined perfectly, but unread. The appliances gleamed, yet were essentially unused. Only the kitchen table appeared to have fulfilled its purpose. The plastic bowls with the hardened remains of oatmeal coating their insides lay exactly as they had left them, marking the places where each child sat. The chairs were scattered, pushed back from the table at odd angles, denoting the wild panic in which their occupants had fled the room hours before.

  But after a quick glance, Curt didn't give any of this a second look.

  His attention grew fixed entirely on the mudroom door and the yawning black depths of the basement just beyond it. It became everything to him, holding him mesmerized. Nothing had ever seemed so impenetrably black to him and he wondered if the movement he had seen was all in his head.

  He turned sideways saddling up to the door, ready to sprint away at the first sign of movement. His feet were like leaves in an autumn wind, skipping about, each barely touching the floor before it was up again. Lighter and lighter, they seemed as he moved closer to the door. His feet wanted to run. They wanted to tear out of there, caring nothing for the blackness or the door. They only knew fear.

  But Curt, his face screwed up as if in pain, forced his feet onward. As he passed the counter, he snatched up one of the cookbooks. It was the very one that he had picked up on his first day in the house and as he held it, it fell open in his palm to the recipe for Goulash, just as it had before.

  This registered on his mind only distantly; he was too focused on the black of the basement and absently he closed the book, hefting it in his hand. It would do.

  A few steps later, he was in the doorway of the mudroom. Now he started to breathe heavier and faster. His body wanted to hyperventilate and it was a struggle to keep his knees from knocking together. The basement door stood open only four feet away and it should've been nothing to step over and shut it, but he could see fully the darkness coming from the basement.

  Though he knew little of physics, Curt knew that the light from behind him should have been able to illuminate at least some of the basement, but three steps and a bit of the wall was all that he could see. The rest was only reeking blackness. He noticed the smell on the air just then. It streamed out of the basement and filled the mudroom with the stench of rotting flesh and the dank of long wet mildew. It was a horror to breathe and Curt choked on it. Gagging and coughing lightly, he caught another scent that at first he welcomed and clung onto. It was the rich smell of freshly turned earth.

  But the odor brought with it a fully formed mental picture of a newly dug trench. He saw it clearly in his mind; deep in a rough-hewn tunnel beneath the basement, he pictured a shallow grave that fit him perfectly; it sat nestled amongst the low humps of older graves but just next to it were three recently filled ones.

  As he stood there in the doorway to the mudroom, Curt's imagination brought forth horrible details that could never have been seen in the thick blackness beneath the basement; a swath of long thin silky brown hair flowing from under the dirt; part of a pale white face, its mouth wide open but filled with wet brown earth; and from the grave closest to his, a hand and part of an arm were partially exposed. The hand twitched suddenly, coming alive, slowly clawing at the dirt, unearthing a hideous face. It was Miss Feanor.

  A gasp escaped his throat just then and Curt nearly ran from the room, but his logical mind asserted itself. Miss Feanor wasn't in the basement, he told himself, she was in the attic with her children...dead. This thought made him look up to the ceiling and for a few moments guilt overrode his terror.

  The guilt allowed him to cast aside the horrible images filling his mind and he stooped and placed the cookbook in the doorway, hoping it would be enough to stop the door from shutting if the house looked to trap him in the mudroom. Taking a deep breath, he took two slow cautious steps and grabbed the doorknob of the basement door and made to close it.

  But abruptly the air coming from the cellar changed, turning cold and damp, like sea air in a winter fog; it stopped his hand and it fell to his side useless as if his muscles were no longer his to control. With wide eyes, he peered into the deeper darkness below him. Almost it seemed a figure began to take shape in the pitch and though his mind screamed for him to slam the door and run, he stood as if shackled to the floor, hypnotized by what he was seeing. Seconds clicked by and the form became more substantial, more clearly feminine and the air more dreadfully foul.

  The cold air stopped his breath, stiffened his joints, holding him in placed as the figure coalesced before him. It now formed eyes within a horrid ebony face. Terrible eyes that held accusations and anger and blazed with bitter hatred. He feared completely those eyes and if it were possible, he felt even more spellbound than before and thus it was a shock to see in his lower periphery, his own trembling hand come up from his side. It reached out on its own volition and simply shut the door in Curt's now startled face. The hand then fell back limply to hi
s side.

  For a moment, he did nothing but stare uncomprehendingly at the door, feeling his warm sweat compete with the cold mist that covered his body. Eventually he backed away from the basement door, slowly, cautiously as if sudden movement would cause it to fly open with a wall-rattling bang. His eyes never wavered from the door, even as he stooped to retrieve the cookbook.

  Only when the mudroom door shut with a tiny "Click" did Curt relax in any way, though in truth he didn't so much relax as he collapsed without strength into the nearest chair. There his entire body shook with pent up fright and unused adrenaline, even his breath came in sharp panting waves, shooting out from between his chattering teeth. He knew that it would be smart to go up to bed and hide there, but he felt too weak and his legs wobbled alarmingly on his first attempt to stand.

  Sitting back fatigued, he began to understand that it really wouldn't make much difference whether he laid in bed or sat at the table. He lived solely at the whim of the house. It could call the creature at any moment it wished, and no amount of pretending that it was his bed that made any sort of difference would help him. If the house wished him dead, then he'd die, and die horribly.

  Chapter 27

  Matt In Charge

  1

  Depression settled over Curt and it mixed with his grief and his guilt and his exhaustion. It became so bad, that his head lolled at the table and he nearly fell into a stuporous sleep, but with a huge effort of will the boy rallied his remaining strength and set to work.

  That the house could kill him at any time didn't mean there weren't still odds to play and angles to shoot for. Curt decided if he were to die, he wouldn't be the first of the children to and with that in mind, he began to clean his areas of responsibilities. He quickly saw how Miss Feanor had thought to sabotage him the night before. All of the stupid girlish nick-knacks that he was forced to dust on a daily basis had been piled in a jumble on the floor of the powder room.

  Seeing them there made the guilt that he carried around within him lighter and as he worked, dragging his weary limbs through the monotonous labor, he thought about Miss Feanor. Though he felt bad for the terrible predicament that she faced, he decided grimly that she got what she deserved. There had been no reason to turn the creature loose on him. None whatsoever. And worse than that, she had sentenced him, Amber, Paul, Matt and some girl named Beth, whom he felt as if he had never really met, to death.

  That thought sent a flame of anger burning in him and for a while, it lent him energy. Curt fed on the emotion and used it to get through his chores, though he would have been the first to describe his work as mediocre. But it was better than the other children's areas except for maybe Amber's which he worked on next.

  Lastly, with great caution, Curt went to the kitchen and cleaned up the bowls as best as he could. Even Matt's. He stared at the older boy's dirty bowl for the longest time and the greatest part of him wanted to leave it untouched. But in the end, he felt it too hypocritical of him to leave it as the only bowl left out.

  When he was done, Curt saw the light fading from the sky and feeling heavy with exhaustion, he dragged his tired feet to his lonely bed. In truth, he felt anxious to be with someone, Amber in particular, yet just then, he would have settled even for the mouse. But with night, coming Curt was fearful of being out of bed at the wrong time. And it was no longer just the creature that he feared, now he was frightened of the house itself in a manner he hadn't before.

  The black apparition in the cellar had proved Miss Feanor correct; it was far worse than the creature in a way that was difficult for Curt with his limited vocabulary and youth to comprehend. The creature's desires though a horrible perversion was at least a perversion of a human mental illness. The black figure on the other hand had simply been beyond understanding, except that Curt knew it to be wholly unnatural and utterly evil.

  The thought of the creature and the evil spirit of Mrs. Havacheck had Curt lying under his covers dreading the coming night. With the last of the light slipping from the sky, he put a hand out to check the feel of the house. Volatile was the word Curt would have used to describe the house, if he had known it. Instead, the best he came up with was unstable.

  The house's emotions were precariously balanced and Curt worried that he had done something terribly wrong by having the temerity to shut the basement door. Almost immediately upon pulling his hand back under the covers, he heard the first movement downstairs. The creature in its unbridled eagerness had come stalking out of the basement earlier than it ever had before.

  It was loud as well. Not only were the CRREIKS on the stairs almost exaggerated, it moved carelessly about the house, knocking into the walls and bumping the furniture. Soon Curt found out that these weren't accidents. It wanted its presence known; it wanted the children to tremble under their blankets.

  Three times, it went slowly through the bedrooms and each time it became louder and Curt could almost feel its horrible desire building. On the third, he wept silently in the greatest fear, his tears poured from his face in twin rivers. The creature had become even bolder, going so far as to run its black scab covered hands over the very covers under which Curt shook and shivered out his overpowering fear.

  He tried to remain perfectly still. But it was an impossibility. He remembered looking down at the other children just that afternoon and he knew that even the slightest movement would be seen. When the hand came down on him, his muscled jumped involuntarily and this seemed to excite the creature. Another hand touched him and this time he could feel the things long nails bite through the thin covers.

  Curt held himself rigidly in a little ball and though he tried not to think about what was coming, he couldn't help it. He imagined that the face that would form out of the grey ghost like aura of the creature would be that of Miss Feanor and she'd bite out her revenge with endless cruelty. This image had him so petrified with fear that when the creature next touched him, gripping his arm with what felt like the talons of a monstrous eagle, Curt didn't budge. His muscles thrummed as if he was lying on an electric wire, but he didn't budge.

  This might have been what saved him that night, for seconds later the creature left his room and didn't return.

  A few minutes later, "It wasn't me!" the scream rang out. "I didn't do it! I didn't do it!"

  2

  Matt's first screams were terrifying in their fear, but Curt only wilted into his damp sheets, relieved at not having been chosen. The night had already been very long and terrifying and the day had been stressful and despite the tortured cries of the older boy running along the polished wood and fineries of the beautiful house, Curt was soon fast asleep.

  It was a deep refreshing sleep. Of course, he had no idea of its length, but he felt good when hands shook him roughly awake. Despite his head feeling still half-asleep, he knew the hands were human and so he popped his head from the covers without fear. However, he recoiled at the sight before him and his woolly thinking disappeared in a blink.

  It was Matt who had awakened him and he looked grotesque.

  The bite marks were deep and fresh. They covered his face, overlapping in spots and in many places, the teeth had bitten through the skin. There were black scabs lined with harsh red swelling, pink fluid seeped from the edges of these and his turtleneck was already discolored at the collar. It seemed that the creature had concentrated on the boy's face and when he turned slightly, Curt saw that the tip of one of his ears had been bitten clean off. There were even bite marks in Matt's hairline and he could see where a chunk of his scalp had been torn away.

  Matt didn't even look like himself and Curt only recognized him from his brown hair and the hate behind his eyes. The hate made Curt flinch back further in his bed.

  'Eat', Matt motioned sharply and turned away; he swayed slightly as he walked from the room.

  The sight of those bite marks, momentarily checked Curt's hunger. He didn't like the look of them, and not simply because of how painful they appeared but rather the evil t
hey heralded. Curt reached up and gingerly touched his own slowly healing wounds. It was true that he had been bitten on the face as well, however not only had he had been out of bed at the time, he had also fought back, something he was sure Matt hadn't done.

  And still he had only been bitten on the face in one place. It looked as though Matt had only been bitten on the face. This worried Curt greatly. The creature it seemed was no longer being held in check by the house and it was now doing as it pleased. In his mind, it was clear that it was only a matter of time before the thing began to kill them off, biting them to death and burying them in the basement.

  Shivers ran down his skin uncontrollably at the thought.

  Thinking to gauge the feel of the house, he put his hand out to the wall, only to yank it away in an instant. The house churned with uncertainty and suspicion at his touch. It made him want to slip back under the covers, but he had spent so much time in bed in the last few days that he got up to eat.

  Only Amber and Matt were at the table when he came down. They were eating slowly, watching the mudroom door with great trepidation. Amber gave him a tired red eyed smile when he came in and then went back to eyeing the door, studiously avoiding looking at Matt. Curt followed her lead. His injuries were simply too disturbing to look at.

  The mouse came down a minute later and her spinning eyes stared without reservation at the older boy's miserable face. She started whispering between bites of oatmeal and now Curt amazed himself as he began to feel sorry for Matt. Paul came down next and he too stared at Matt. He tried to eat one handed so that he could hold back the twitch from one of his eyes, but it was no use and he was becoming effectively blind from the spasms.

  "Do you see that?" Paul whispered unexpectedly. His head was cocked to the side looking just behind Amber.

  "I know. Shut up!" Paul hissed, clearly speaking to someone none of the rest of them could see, he clamped a hand over his own mouth.