by Bryan Smith
He held up a hand to block the glare. “Aim that thing somewhere else, please.”
She shifted the direction of the beam and now it cast faint illumination over the base of a spiral staircase to Jim’s right. “I’m so fucking scared. This place is haunted or something.”
Jim’s heart was pounding hard in his chest and his breath was coming in quick gasps. He was scared, too. For good reason. Something was very not right here. That was undeniable. But he couldn’t help laughing at Tanya’s wild assertion, which he found hysterical. “Bullshit. There’s no such thing as ghosts. Somebody’s fucking with us.”
A sound came from somewhere else in the house. A low moan. Tanya squealed in fright again upon hearing it. The sound came again a moment later. This time Jim was sure it was tinged with a note of sensual pleasure. His gaze went to the staircase. He was pretty sure the sound had come from somewhere up there.
“Somebody’s playing games, baby.” Jim’s elevated heart rate began to ease back into the normal zone. He was pretty sure he had a sense of what was happening now. “These people are even freakier than they let on in their ad.”
Tanya made a petulant, frightened sound. “What the hell are you talking about? That door closed itself, Jim. You saw that with your own damn eyes.”
Jim smirked. “I saw a trick. This is some kind of spook show game. These people are horror nerds or something. They get off on this shit. Just listen to them.” He paused as he waved a hand at the staircase. Yet another of those low, sexual moans issued from upstairs. “They’ve already started. You wait. When we get up there, they’ll be dressed as Victorian vampires or some other shit like that.”
“Are you serious?”
Tanya sounded more frustrated than ever, which Jim would not have thought possible.
He chuckled. “Yeah, I’m serious. Isn’t it obvious? We’re supposed to go find them and join in the action. We’ll probably run into more of these spook house gags on the way.”
Tanya turned her phone’s light beam again, illuminating her face, which was now set in a look of deep disdain. “That’s the dumbest load of shit I’ve ever heard.”
Jim shrugged. “Never said it wasn’t dumb. It’s just what they’re into, that’s all.”
Tanya shook her head, the look on her face indicating that she wasn’t buying it. “I don’t think so. I’d almost believe you if not for this weird fucking cold. It’s like on the ghost hunter shows on TV. Haunted houses have cold spots.”
Jim sighed, growing weary of the inane debate over ghosts. “More tricks. They probably dialed the thermostat down as far as . . .”
A scowl twisted Tanya’s features as he trailed off. “I don’t think so. I don’t think there’s any A/C running in here. The air doesn’t just feel cold. It’s stale. It’s . . . hey . . . what’s wrong?”
She’d at last taken note of the look of alarm that had dawned on his face.
Jim shook his head, temporarily incapable of speech as his mind struggled to make sense of the thing looming up behind his girlfriend. The light from her phone made its hideous face visible in the darkness as it came closer. It was a visage of pure horror, the kind of impossible abomination that could only exist in nightmares—or so Jim would have thought if he hadn’t been staring right at it.
The thing’s head was huge and deformed and tinged a sickly shade of green. Large, pustulant sores further marred the sickly-looking flesh. As it came closer to Tanya, its jaw opened wide to display a mouth bristling with fangs. The stretching of the flesh caused many of the oozing sores to pop open and spray Tanya’s back with pus.
Tanya had continued yelling at him, but it was just so much noise in the face of this looming monstrosity. Now she scrunched her face up in disgust as she felt the unnatural vileness spattering her back. She turned around to see what was behind her.
Too late, Jim called out a warning. “Don’t!”
Tanya screamed and staggered backward a step. The creature let out a roar and opened its mouth wider, impossibly wide, its fangs becoming longer and curved. Tanya’s body language suggested flight was imminent, but she didn’t act quickly enough. The creature’s abominable head snapped toward her, its mouth opening so wide it was able to take the entirety of her head inside its mouth. There was a crunch of bone as those knife-like fangs clacked together and severed her spine.
Jim screamed.
He opened his jacket and fumbled for the 9mm concealed in the inner pocket. The creature gave its head a savage twist. Tanya’s head came away from her body. A geyser of blood shot up into the air from the neck stump. For one horrific, frozen moment, Tanya’s corpse remained upright in the middle of the foyer as that spray of blood arced up toward the ceiling. Then it staggered backward a step and toppled to the floor.
Jim finally had a solid grip on the 9mm. He yanked it free of the inner pocket, tearing the pocket’s lining in the process. The creature eyed him with what might have been amused contempt as it chewed on its morsel of flesh and bone. The crunching, grinding sound Jim heard as the thing ate his girlfriend’s head turned Jim’s stomach.
It was crazy. He was a killer. Any normal person who, upon hearing details of the things he’d done, would describe him as a madman, possibly as inhuman. A monster. But he felt real grief in the wake of Tanya’s death. He’d loved her. He experienced a moment of profound regret. This was obviously some kind of cosmic punishment for the many horrible things he’d done. In that moment, at least, it was the only explanation that made any sense. Right then, he wished he could take it all back. He’d give anything to have a normal life with Tanya.
But that wasn’t going to happen.
Not now.
The thing finished gulping down the last of Tanya’s now thoroughly masticated head. Then it opened its mouth again and belched. A blast of putrid, hot air issued from its mouth, making Jim’s eyes water from more than a dozen feet away. The creature made a sound that might have been laughter.
Then it took a step toward him.
Jim got the gun up and aimed in time to squeeze off four quick shots. Each bullet found its target, ripping bloody holes through the diseased-looking flesh. None of the wounds affected the thing in the slightest. It kept lurching forward, that hideous mouth opening wide again.
Backing away from it, Jim felt for the doorknob with his left hand and found it. He tried to turn it, but it didn’t budge. In the face of such horror, he’d forgotten about the knob being frozen in place. His head snapped to the right and he again glimpsed the base of the spiral staircase. Tanya’s phone was buried somewhere under her body. The only reason he could see at all was ambient light from various outdoor sources—moonlight and the glow from that streetlamp on the other side of Golden Elm—shining through the windows.
Window, he thought.
Even in the midst of grief and horror, he realized that breaking one might be his only way out of this insane predicament. First, though, he’d have to live long enough to do that. And that meant getting upstairs and away from this fucking monster.
The creature let out another roar as he made a break for the staircase. Jim fired two more shots in its direction as he hit the stairs running. Again, both bullets found flesh, one of them passing right through one of the creature’s bulbous yellow eyes. Judging from the fresh roar that ensued, this was the first of the wounds to actually hurt it.
Suck on that, you ugly fuck, Jim thought.
Jim was breathing heavily as he reached the second-floor landing after vaulting up the stairs two at a time. He took a quick look around. There wasn’t much to see. Significantly less of that ambient lighting was filtering through to this smaller second level. He felt his way around and arrived at a door to the room he was pretty sure had those windows facing the yard. He meant to get in there, break out one of those windows—shoot it out, if necessary—and shimmy down to the yard.
A thunderous sound from below made Jim yelp in fright. The creature was clumsily tromping its way up the winding staircase.
Jim sighed in relief as the door to the room opened easily. He closed it behind him as he entered the room. The door was equipped with a basic lock. He turned it, despite knowing that the flimsy lock and plywood door would be no more effective at keeping the monster out than a sheet of rice paper.
Turning away from the door, he spied the window he’d noted from outside earlier. That had only been a few moments ago, which struck him as surreal. Those few moments felt like a lifetime. He started toward the window, but froze in his tracks when the little girl materialized directly in front of him. One moment she hadn’t been there, then she was. Jim flashed back to Tanya’s assertion that she’d seen a child peering out at them. He’d been sure she was seeing things, but apparently not.
“Get out of my way, kid. I don’t want to have to hurt you.”
Another thunderous, earthshaking sound came from right outside the door as the creature arrived on the second-floor landing.
“We are 138 Golden Elm Lane.”
Jim frowned. “What?”
And now he was aware of other presences in the room. He glanced around and saw wispy forms emerging from the shadows. Some looked more solid than others. A few of the apparitions were dressed in old-timey outfits, while others wore more modern clothes. Some looked barely there at all, like faded remnants of things lost long ago. They were saying things. No. That wasn’t right.
It was all the same thing.
We are 138 Golden Elm Lane.
“We are 138 Golden Elm Lane,” the little girl told him again, giggling. “And now so are you.”
And that was when she plunged the knife deep into his belly.
Jim thought, No, no. I can’t die. I can’t die.
But then he did.
The next morning two men stood on the sidewalk outside 138 Golden Elm and stared at the house where the serial-killing couple had gone to their demise. These men knew two human beings had died in the house the previous night, but they knew nothing of the couple’s background. As far as they knew, the two had been complete innocents, just like most victims of 138 Golden Elm.
These men were Tom Clifton and Michael Everett. Both men were long-time residents of Golden Elm. They had raised their families here. They had lived prosperous, happy lives here. But that happiness came with a price.
Tom scratched his chin and let out a breath. “The key will be in the mailbox like usual, I guess.”
Michael nodded. “Should be. Whose turn is it to get rid of the car?”
His was the voice Jim Matthews would have identified as belonging to the fictional “Michael Quist”.
Tom grimaced. “Mine, I think.”
Michael glanced at him. “I can do it if you’d rather.”
Tom shook his head. “No, it’s my turn. We do this right. We do our part. I’ll ditch the car. You go online and pull that ad.”
Michael shrugged. “Yeah, okay. Until next time, anyway.”
Tom grunted. “Right. Until it’s hungry again.”
Both men stared at the long-unoccupied—by living humans, anyway—house of death another moment. They didn’t like doing any of this, but it was part of the sealed-in-blood deal they’d made so long ago. For better or worse, they were bound to it for life. Until they were dead and others were lured into taking their place.
Tom went to the mailbox and opened it.
The keys to the Audi were waiting.
THE BARREL
AUTHOR’S NOTE: A little bit of Black Mirror and a little bit of the EC Comics inspiration. Plus Satan.
THE BARREL WAS IN HIS backyard when Martin Sanchez got up to let his dogs out that morning. He’d had a few drinks the night before—okay, maybe more than a few—and had stumbled bleary-eyed and still half asleep through the kitchen on the way to the back door. He glimpsed the barrel as he got the door open and let the dancing, antsy dogs outside. In the grip of that deep grogginess, however, its presence initially did not register at the forefront of his consciousness. He’d seen it, but not seen it. Not really. Not yet.
He closed the screen door and left the inner door open as he turned away from the view of the yard and the scampering dogs. One of them—it sounded like Hank—was already barking at something. Probably a squirrel up in one of the trees that lined the other side of the tall privacy fence surrounding his property. Ignoring this, he sleepily fumbled with his refrigerator’s door handle a moment before getting a grip on it and hauling it open. That accomplished, he rubbed at his eyes and stared in at the fridge’s severely depleted contents.
Martin sighed heavily.
The fridge was a kind of metaphor for the current state of his life—nearly empty and devoid of anything truly nourishing. It’d been different before the divorce. The fridge had always been fully-stocked with all the staples when Carol was still around. Condiments, lunch meats, various cheeses, vegetables, and the full array of hearty breakfast foods. She’d seen to all of that every week without fail. He’d barely even thought of it back then. Things were so much simpler—open fridge, find whatever you needed, go on with your life. The way things were supposed to be.
Now, though, all he saw were some stray bottles of beer—leftovers from various six-packs purchased over the last few weeks—a bottle of ketchup, and a clear plastic container of cheap cheese dip. What Martin really wanted was a heaping plate of eggs, bacon, and pancakes. Unfortunately, if he wanted to eat, he’d probably have to settle for cheese dip and some stale leftover tortilla chips. There was a week-old bag of Tostitos in one of the cupboards. He could have that. He was hungry.
But not quite that hungry.
Making a mental note to go to the store later that afternoon, Martin grabbed one of the beers from the fridge and flipped the refrigerator door shut. After twisting the cap off the longneck bottle, it slipped from his grasp and clattered to the dirty floor. He stared at it a moment in groggy irritation before kicking it under the fridge.
Hank was still barking outside. He was being really loud. Louder than usual. Martin groaned and took a deep slug of beer. The last thing he wanted was for old Mr. Sloan to come over and start bitching about the noise. He shuffled over to the screen door and peered through the window.
He was a little more awake now thanks to the rejuvenating dose of hair of the dog and this time the presence of the barrel truly registered. The dogs weren’t barking at squirrels. Instead they had their teeth bared and their hackles up as they stood on opposite sides of the barrel and growled and barked. Martin had the lip of the bottle poised at his mouth for another swig, but now he lowered it as a look of confusion began to twist his features.
“Huh. That’s weird.”
Weird was perhaps an understatement. The barrel looked like one of those big metal oil drums. It was all black and it was sitting on the ground about fifteen feet away from the back stoop. Martin had no idea where it had come from or who might have left it there. The one thing he did know was it had not been there the last time he’d let the dogs outside, which had been around two in the morning.
Its inexplicable presence was just one component of the overall weirdness of the situation. Another was the behavior of the dogs. The German Shepherds were acting as if they’d cornered a malevolent intruder. He couldn’t fathom why they were freaking out over an inanimate object. He was troubled by the thing’s unexpected arrival in his backyard, but that was because he knew it shouldn’t be there. Someone—some stranger, possibly—had come onto his property while he was sleeping and put this thing there. It was scary. But Hank and Lucille were dogs. They couldn’t know it didn’t belong there.
Or could they?
He knew better than to underestimate the perceptive ability of dogs. He’d owned dogs all his life. They picked up on more than people realized. Maybe there was something in the barrel they didn’t like. The longer he observed them, the more likely this seemed. Martin tried to imagine any non-troublesome explanation for that and couldn’t come up with anything.
The barrel was just sitti
ng there, but the dogs were becoming steadily more agitated. They crouched and dug their claws into the ground. Hank started barking again, louder than before. He looked almost frenzied, like a rabid junkyard dog.
Martin opened the screen door and held it open as he stepped out onto the back stoop. He put his fingers to his mouth and let out a loud whistle. “Hank! Lucy! Come the fuck inside!”
The dogs glanced his way, but they remained where they were and resumed growling. Martin raised his voice and shifted to his “I mean business” tone as he yelled at them again. This time they came away from the barrel, but they did it slowly, with obvious reluctance. Hank in particular glanced back at it several times on his way to the stoop.
Martin hurried them inside and closed the screen door. He heard them whimper as he stood on the stoop and eyed the mystery barrel a while longer. He took another big gulp of cheap lager and tried to figure out what to do about the thing.
The barrel and its contents—if any—might well be harmless, but there was no guarantee of that. He could think of no reason why anyone he knew would put the barrel in his backyard. For all he knew, it might contain a body. Or an explosive device. Those things seemed wildly implausible, but how could he know for sure without peeking inside?
Ah, but therein existed the conundrum. In the unlikely event the barrel did contain a body, he risked contaminating any evidence if he touched it. Doing so might even cast suspicion on him. Leaving the thing the hell alone and calling the police was the obvious answer to this dilemma. Let them open it up and see what was inside it. That way, there’d be no risk to him and he wouldn’t wind up smearing his DNA all over the goddamn thing.
This made perfect sense, yet for some reason he continued to linger here on the stoop rather than going back inside to fetch his phone and place a call to 911. His curiosity was growing the longer he stood out here and stared at the barrel. There was something compelling about it that went beyond the obvious, beyond what he could see, an indefinable something that tickled something in his subconscious mind.