The Punished

by Peter Meredith

  Just in front of Paul's bedroom door he stood, his eyes were draped over with a black anger, the sight of which sent a chill through Curt. But worse than the boy's eyes was the jagged foot long shard of wood that he held in his right hand. For a moment, Curt thought it was the very stake that had been used to tear open Amber's face and he stared, flummoxed at how Matt could have gotten a hold of it. As far as he knew, the chunk of wood was still up in the attic, keeping company with three decomposing corpses. But then Matt turned slightly to look into Paul's room and Curt saw that the wood of the stake was a pale white, unblemished by the stain of blood.

  The sight of it held him perfectly mesmerized and he took in every detail. The point looked wickedly sharp as if it had been made for murder and the edge where it had been split from a larger piece of wood seemed so keen as to appear knife-like. Curt was so taken with the stake that he stood quite openly in the center of the hall and all Matt had to do was simply turn to his left to see him.

  But fortunately for Curt, the older boy stepped into Paul's room instead. Now Curt was instantly on the move, he rushed down the backstairs feeling the air cool the sweat, which had soaked his shirt at the sight of that stake. As he moved, he came up with a brilliant plan: Don't get stabbed with the stake.

  Not only was it brilliant, it was a simple plan as well.

  His mind strived to come up with something different, but the house was only so big and the hiding places were very few. Therefore, with no other ideas coming to him, he embarked on a hopeless game of cat and mouse. The outcome of which was foreordained. He could not hope to keep out of the reach of Matt and his stake indefinitely, and in fact, early on, he wondered whether it would be better just to give up rather than add frustration to Matt's already huge anger.

  But the stake scared him too much. If Matt was going to force him into the basement, he didn't want to go in bleeding fresh wet blood. The thought caused him to picture a feeding frenzy in the dark and more sweat broke out down his back. That image kept coming to him as he scurried about the house and it was all he could do not to cry.

  Now the game, if it could be called such, lasted far longer than he had expected. For over twenty minutes, he eluded the larger boy, moving with a silence that could only have been exceeded by the very person stalking him. Using every trick he could think of, doubling back, leaving false trails, hiding when it was smart to run, running when it was smart to hide, he was able to keep Matt second guessing himself. But it couldn't last and Curt became mentally worn down with the stress and began to make mistakes. At one point, he doubled back in his tracks and for whatever reason doubled again so that inadvertently he headed straight for Matt, who was coming down the backstairs. Standing in the kitchen, he spun to glide-run out of there and just as he did he saw the mudroom door open menacingly.

  Still moving, his eyes were pinned to the doorway in horror and, thunk, he walked square into a cabinet, stunning himself. Suddenly he heard the light patter of footsteps on the backstairs, which marked Matt running at full speed. Aghast at his stupidity, Curt just had the presence of mind to step around the corner into the dining room.

  There he was trapped.

  It was one way in and one way out, and the only hiding spots were under the table or flattening himself against the wall beside the china cabinet. He didn't bother with an attempt at hiding, instead he stood on the balls of his feet straining to hear either the telltale swish of Matt's feet or the fast heavy tread of the creature charging up the basement stairs.

  Neither came to him, which was a surprise and after half a minute, he slowly peeked around the corner into the kitchen. Matt was walking sideways, crablike just as he had the day before toward the mudroom door. His body was tense and looked ready to book it out of there at the first sign of danger and unfortunately for Curt, the boy kept turning his head back toward the main hall, essentially keeping him trapped.

  As Matt moved toward the mudroom, Curt kept a close watch, looking for any opening that would allow him to sprint down the hall and up the stairs. But he'd need a big opening, for the hallway was long and his running would certainly attract attention, however Curt didn't think he'd get the break he was looking for. Matt would have to actually step into the mudroom, something he was almost sure wouldn't happen.

  He was wrong, yet missed his chance anyways. Just as it looked as if Matt would really step into the mudroom, he glanced down the hall and it was all Curt could do to dance back to remain unseen. And by the time he dared to peek back around the corner again, he saw Matt stepping once more into the kitchen, his face an ash grey color. Curt ground his teeth, frustrated that he wasn't catching any breaks.

  The thought gave him a flash of inspiration. If he weren't catching any breaks, he would make one instead. On the runner that went down the length of the dining room table were a number of frolicking porcelain kittens. Acting quickly without pausing for needless worry, he snatched up the nearest one and without looking back toward Matt, sent the thing skimming along the polished wood toward the front door.

  As soon as the kitten had left his hand, he pulled his arm back and listened, a second later a gratifying, thunk came from the end of the hall. Just then he heard the near silent swish of Matt's feet, racing in the direction of the front door, Curt ducked behind the china cabinet. The ruse worked better than he had expected. When he glanced down the hall, Curt saw Matt disappearing at a sprint up the stairs.

  Feeling enormously pleased with himself, Curt made to follow along after the larger boy, but hadn't gone far when he spied Matt's feet coming back down the stairs. No longer feeling pleased, Curt turned and zipped toward the kitchen and saw that Matt had closed the mudroom door, he felt a second of relief. His anxiety was too great for it to last any longer, after taking the right into the kitchen, he started going up the backstairs, and just then, a shadow bobbed against Matt's door. It was low down on the door, which meant whoever it was, hadn't progressed far down the hall but was definitely heading his way.

  Unsure of himself, Curt paused not knowing if it were Matt or one of the other children. Still he couldn't just stand there and wait to find out and yet he couldn't go back for fear of running into Matt if this were in fact one of the other children. Seconds ticked away and as the shadow moved slowly forward, Curt made the decision to go back into the kitchen.

  Nobody in their right mind would be out of bed just then. All during the long chase about the house, Curt had noticed the other children hiding beneath their covers, awaiting the outcome. And now he felt relatively certain that it was Matt coming toward the backstairs, therefore he coasted along heading for the main stairs. But just as he came up to them, he saw Matt's feet at the top of the stairs moving down.

  Matt had doubled back again! Curt felt his sanity fraying at the edges, and his mind took a bigger hit as he fled into the kitchen only to see the mudroom door swing open once more. It stopped his feet cold and he stared as the door opened toward him. Had they been too noisy, running around the house?

  He didn't know. Curt had been so engrossed on evading Matt, that he hadn't checked the walls once and he was perfectly petrified that the creature would be standing right there when the door finally opened all the way. A second later, his shoulders slumped with the tiniest relief and he found he could breathe again, the basement door was still closed.

  But he was only allowed that one breath, because as he stood and watched, the basement door opened as well. Curt's eyes went huge expecting to see the creature or perhaps the ghost of Miss Feanor, or worst of all, the black entity that lived within the walls of the house. Yet when it finally came open, there was nothing.

  This time relief did not flow over him, he was too frazzled to go on, not knowing which way to turn. Matt was so silent and so slick that he could be anywhere and now Curt felt his mind becoming slow to react and thinking was becoming a chore. All he knew for certain was that it was only a matter of time before he was caught and then...Curt turned and looked into the basement. He co
uld go down there, into the horrid black, bleeding, perhaps kicking and screaming or he could just go and get it over with.

  Fatalistically he started walking toward the doom that awaited him. Stepping into the mudroom the black of the basement seemed to reach out for him, and a wet stench billowed up from the depths, coating him, so that he felt slick and oily. There felt to be eyes down there, staring up at him from deep in the blackness. A horde of eyes. They were hungry for him, for his warmth.

  Those eyes stopped him for a moment, but it didn't matter, behind him, the mudroom door swung shut on silent hinges. He was trapped now and a part of him screamed and pleaded for him to run.

  But he was done in mentally and physically he was beaten and exhausted; there was nothing he could do to stop Matt, or the creature or the house for that matter. They all had power over him and could hurt him whenever they wished to. Drained of any will to live, apathetically, Curt went to the gaping maw of the basement.

  Chapter 29

  The Thief In The Basement

  1

  Cold and black; the basement was just like his mind.

  He stopped, poised at the precipice overlooking a deep gluttonous chasm. Behind him, the light from the mudroom should have shown deeper into the basement than it did, but the darkness seemed to be substantial and seven or eight stairs was all that Curt could see and even that was shadowed, the walls were black and crusted looking. Though he had meant only a pause to see down into the gloom, the pause stretched out as a spike of fear cut through his apathy.

  Something was down there, waiting with quickly eroding patience. Yet it would not wait forever and he guessed that if he stood there much longer, teasing it with his presence it would come for him. The thought built a great terror in him and Curt's mind forgot to tell him to breathe, but his subconscious mind told him to get the hell out of there before it was too late. This distant voice he listened to, and with a numb hand, he grabbed the doorknob and this little thing shook him even more out of his lethargy. The brass in his hand was cold beyond belief and held all the enmity for life that the spirit of the house possessed, only it was blunt or muted as if the house was trying to camouflage its true nature. It was too late for that, Curt thought he knew the evil that existed down there.

  Finally awakening to the terribly dangerous position he had put himself in, he shut the door and held it closed with his slim form.

  For a moment, he feared that the thing would come up from the black and try to push its way into the mudroom, but seconds passed and there was nothing, no sounds, no movement. After a minute or so of leaning against the door, he began to shake, feeling like a suicide saved by circumstance and stupidly, he felt a modicum of safety. According to the bizarre rules of the house, as long as he remained quiet and didn't disturb Mrs. Havacheck's belongings all he had to worry over was a psychotic boy wielding a wooden dagger. Curt's world had become so strange that he relaxed a little at the thought.

  His right hand stung from the cold of the knob and he messaged it with his left as his mind started to come slowly back around and as it did, he realized he still didn't know what to do. No direction seemed likely to get him out of his current predicament and the only thing he knew with any certainty was that he didn't want to go into the basement anytime soon. That he would go down there eventually, hopefully dragged in unconscious, he no longer doubted, but there was no cause to head there just yet, he reasoned. Something could still happen. They could even be rescued.

  That thought brought a rueful smile to his lips and he even chuckled weakly. The sad truth was they'd all be long dead before anyone would think to come by, but at least he was safe at the moment. And perhaps he could be safer for a while longer; Curt decided he would use the mudroom to lay low in, hoping that hiding in the very jaws of the lion might shake Matt off his trail, at least for a little while. He needed the break, badly. His hands still shook and he felt a weakness clear to his bones.

  With his knees threatening to buckle beneath him he sat down, his back to the basement door, and the entrance to the mudroom a few feet to his right. For a long while he lacked the energy to do nothing more that stare at the white, white walls, but gradually his brain started to function again and the first thing that got past his tired fuzzy thinking was the question of why Miss Feanor called this a mudroom.

  Like the rest of the house, it was perfectly clean, without a speck of mud anywhere in evidence. It didn't make sense. Personally, he'd have called it a laundry room since a gleaming washer/dryer set sat only a few feet from him. Curt would have put money down that if he pulled out the lint trap of the dryer it would be as clean and lint free as the day it had been put into the house.

  He was so certain that he didn't bother to check.

  Now the only other thing about the mudroom that drew his attention was the garage door. Its ornate knob was merely a long-armed stretch away and it seemed to beckon to him to touch it. He dared not. Like the front door, it just looked too easy and besides, there was no reason to go into the garage either way. It was as impossible to escape from as the rest of the house...or was it?

  Curt suddenly sat up straighter. Something nagged at the back of his mind and he strived to recall all he could about the garage. There wasn't much to remember. Its walls had been bare; no shelves, no tools, no bikes, no nothing!

  Literally, it contained only the car, the door that lead to the backyard and the main door. Out of the blue, Curt pictured the garage door rattling upwards and his heart began to thump heavily. The garage door opener! The key to getting out of the house had been there all along, he was even certain that the car itself was unlocked. Miss Feanor hadn't bothered to lock it when they had returned from his one outing his first day in the house, and as people were creatures of habit, he was reasonably sure that she hadn't locked it the day Darla the social worker had been killed either.

  If he wanted to, he could leave right then! And by the time the house had roused the creature, Curt could be halfway to the nearest police station. With growing excitement he reached for the shiny knob, he could see his hand reflected in its surface as closer and closer it went. His hand looked disfigured or perhaps warped in the curved brass and he stopped it only an inch from the metal.

  Don't be a fool, he chided himself. Again, this just seemed too easy. In the fourteen years, that Miss Feanor lived in the home doing foster care someone surely would have thought of this before now. And if they had, why didn't they escape? What stopped them?

  The solution was obvious: the house stopped them of course. But how? Curt pictured the garage door once again and the answer popped out at him quick enough, the garage door operated using an electric motor and the electricity for that motor came from the house.

  "Damn," he whispered, barely loud enough for his own ears to hear.

  The day he had tried to use the phone, the house had proved that it could control the flow of electricity within it without a problem. Curt sagged back down and ran his fingers through the mass of curly hair weaving about his head. Now that he thought on it, he never remembered seeing Miss Feanor even use a garage door opener. The house had simply let her in or out.

  His spirits sank very low and gloominess laid a hold of him so great that he just sat there without moving, without caring. Curt came to the sad conclusion that he would die in the house. He had tried everything he could think of. He had been in every room and had seen everything there was to see, except the horrors of the basement that is. And surely, there could be no escape down there.

  His gut told him that the garage was the way out, but his own mind mocked him for the coward he was.

  'Your gut told you to kill those two people in the attic as well,' a voice within him spoke up suddenly. It was a snide voice. But it was an accurate voice as well and he wondered if he wanted the garage to be the way out simply because it was easier than facing the terrors in the unknown basement.

  He again smiled at himself but this time, in contempt.

  That was cer
tainly it. The garage held nothing for him. Even if he had the keys to the car, he couldn't get it out of the garage....

  Suddenly Curt sat bolt upright. The car! The car was the key! Forget smashing down an anchored, inch thick window with a chair, he would drive that car right through the garage door. In his excitement, he spun around and laid himself on the pure white linoleum. Barely he could see under the crack of the door and there in the garage was a faint glimmer of the shining metal of the car.

  This could work.

  That he could smash through the garage door, he was pretty certain, he had heard of these sorts of things happening before and always it had been a mistake, an accident on the part of the homeowner. So he felt his prospects good that if he were to purposely ram the door it couldn't hold against him.

  His problem lay in starting the car.

  Thankfully, there were indeed keys, since his plan would have been doomed if the house controlled the car as it did everything else. On two separate occasions, he had seen them and he was very certain that they were now in the attic. Likely in the pocket of a dead woman.

  But here lay another problem, getting to the keys seemed an impossibility as well. Without any metal, he had no way to pick the lock to the attic, and the door was so sturdy that it would be easier to smash his way through one of the windows than to attempt to break it down.

  He blew out noisily in frustration. Again, he wished that he were more of a thief. Since it was only a matter of exposing the correct wires and connecting some of them, he was relatively certain that he could actually hot wire the car. It was the time involved that would doom him. He had seen the mass of wires running from a steering column before and it had thoroughly intimidated him then. Even with the mouse as a human sacrifice, he'd have maybe three minutes to go through all the wiring and strip off the rubber coating of the correct ones, using nothing but a plastic fork.