Dwelling (24 page)

The cave rumbled. The sound of stone moving erupted, echoing across the gloom. Dust filled the air as the guttural screech of rock against stone grinding together shadowed the maddening clicks. Jim darted the yellow cone to discover the source. His hand trembled.
An earthquake?
he thought.
In Texas?
The light darted to the wall.
It’s opening!

Beyond was a black too dark to penetrate with his miniscule yellow cone. His hand trembled terribly now. His throat felt dry.
What is this?
He wanted to yell, but his voice was nothing but a hoarse rasp. The grating continued unabated in its feverish uproar. The sound of the massive structure opening, moving into place, or out of place, he could not fathom. And just as soon as the chaos began, the pandemonium ended. A great darkness stood before him as a new rush of humidity fell over him, as if a pocket of trapped air had finally escaped capture from some unobservable place, dissipating into the cavernous atmosphere in a muddy vortex. Ringing dreadful silence fell over the cave. The only sounds he could hear were the beating of his own heart thumping hard in his ears. The clicking had ceased. The flashlight twitched in his hand, causing nightmarish shadows to dance against the stalagmites and stalactites. The yellow light flickered and then died.

Shit, no, no, don’t. Not now. God, not now!
Jim shook the flashlight, banging it against his palm. The yellow cone flicked once more and then gasped its figurative final breath.

The pitch black swallowed him.

Christ!

Jim wanted to scream, but held his breath. Listening. Waiting. Itching to run from the dark abyss before him but found his legs unwilling to move. “
Just go, you idiot, get the hell outta here!”
his conscience prodded again.

Yellow exploded around him. An eerie, dirty, sand-like glow, spinning, whirling around him. The madness was followed by the same ticking swarm of a thousand tymbals belonging to a thousand different hollowed abdomens as before, fluttering in the air with fat transparent wings and bloated red eyes, coming to suck the sap from his marrow, or so he imagined. His hands shot to his ears to protect them from the onslaught of hissing, clicking little voices, or perhaps it was to shield his ears from anything that could crawl inside. The horror reverberated over and over, gaining pitch and volume, gaining mass in a sea of black blobs, inconceivable nightmarish forms. Jim turned and made an effort to run, but fell to his knees instead. His legs were locked. His bowels let loose. Warmth jetted down his thighs. He clenched his chattering teeth. Clasped his eyes shut. He cradled the flashlight between his hands as if in some sort of prayer. He rocked back and forth in the torrent of unrelenting clicking, rattling, hissing. Rocked as he’d done before, when he was young, hearing his parents fighting in the kitchen. Rocked as he’d done when the telegraph about Charles’ death arrived. He rocked.

It’s just a dream.

Just a dream.

Wake up, Jimmy, wake up.

Just a dream.

Just a dream.

Jim Fetcher tore at his ears. The swarm of clicking and rattling bore around him, encircling him in a flood of ugly yellow dimness. He opened his eyes and watched in horror as the horde of large, red-eyed things danced around him in terrifying fluidity. The glow exploded into an eerie dank yellow shade that reminded him of the way sandstorms looked in those pictures he’d seen of deserts in the photos from National Geographic’s he’d read in the teacher’s lounge back in Virginia. The smell of uncooked meat turned sour.
Please, no. Please, God, no.
He watched. He waited for any one of them to land on him, to bite, to consume. The path was before him, but he could not move
. If only Charles were here, then I could run, he would help me.

Coward—pathetic.

What was that?
Jim jerked. A few of the yellow glows sprung out and nipped at his flesh. Blood flowed lazily down his forearm.

Laughter ensued. Not one voice, but many. They sang in his head, scratching like a nail on the surface of his thoughts. The buzzing swirl of dirty yellow continued to click and chirp and rattle around him.

“Who are you?” Jim demanded, protecting his bleeding arm.

Mr. Fetcher…your sorrow is pathetic, but will suffice our appetites, for now.

“What do you want?” Jim screamed, watching in wide eyed terror at the fluid movements of the swarm that clicked, rattling around him in a constant shade of rotten-egg yellow that seemed to be getting closer and closer.

You’re not like your brother, are you, Mr. Fetcher? Charles was brave. You are not.

“So!” Jim fired back.

They hate you.

“…who?”

Everyone.

Jim fought to stand. His fingertips were numb. His ears ached from the constant barrage of clicking that never seemed to cease. The sound poured into his head like molten lava. Hot tears ran down his dark unshaven cheek. His legs quaked unsettlingly, like a
foghorn
caught in a storm. He fell on his ass. His mind tittering on the verge of collapse, he rocked back and forth with his knees pulled tight against his chest. He rocked, like a child scared of the bogey man hiding in the closet. He rocked as he had when he was a boy, catching his parents fighting in the kitchen. He rocked as he had when news of his brother’s death reached him by telegraph.

Mr. Fetcher?

“Yes?” Jim found himself whispering. He felt drunk. Confused.
Where am I?
He began to wonder. Memories faded. Thoughts blurred away, painted over with new images. Images not his own.

Bring them to us.

“Who?”

Bring us your family.

***

Maggie

“My…family?”

Yes, Mrs. Smith. Bring them!

“Mrs. Smith?”

Suicide Squad.

“…squad?”

Come to us…

***

Dazed, Maggie Smith searched around her. The air was hot and humid. Darkness was falling over a soft retreating yellow glow.
Where am I?
A strange clicking sound trailed behind the eerie yellow light that disappeared into the unknown black abyss. She spotted a flashlight on the ground. It was coated in dust and age. When she flipped the switch, a waning but steady faint cone of light ignited.
Still works, that’s amazing considering how old it looks. Now, where the hell am I?
She shone the light. On one side, a massive empty void. On the other, a stone path. She followed the path.

Caring only to find her way out, Maggie ignored the symbols and etches on the walls. She ignored the strange hieroglyphs of horrifying unspeakable acts. Her eyes were on the path, and only the path. She’d almost given up and doubled-back in the other direction when a sharp, familiar bark broke the silence, echoing throughout the cave. Maggie resumed her pace. The flashlight began to fizzle and flicker.
Shit
. She ran. Reaching what looked like a stone staircase, she gazed up at the light that penetrated above. A small doglike silhouette was prancing at the top.

“Moxie?”

The dog yapped, cheerfully.

“Moxie!”
Maggie screamed in jubilation, taking the steps two at a time. Reaching the horizon, she found herself in the cellar of her house, but thought nothing of it. She picked up Moxie and hugged her tight, squeezing the little Shih Tzu.

“Moxie, you came back. You came back,” Maggie wept.

Moxie barked happily.

“You came back.”

CHAPTER 22

STRANGER THINGS HAVE HAPPENED

Moxie growled from the foot of the bed. Something had thumped just outside the door, Maggie was sure of it. At first, she thought it was something from her dream, residual waking or something like that. But when another deep, hard thump echoed down the hall, coming closer, she was sure someone or something was out there. The thumps sounded heavy appearing in short intervals, muffled, like wood coming down against a rug, sounding something similar to a cane. She thought of Johnathan then, but dismissed the idea.
Why would he be here? No one knows where I live…not yet at least.
The invitations she intended to send before the holidays were downstairs in the study, still sitting on the desk under the lamp light. Maggie couldn’t bring herself to mail them, not yet. Unsure if she should. Unsure if she could.
Am I ready to face them, my friends? Friends?

Maggie flinched.

Another loud, hard thump vibrated the floor, rattling the door.

Moxie growled.

“Who’s out there?” Maggie found herself calling, feeling stupid for doing so.
Nice one, Mags. Let the evil monster know where you are. Make it easy on them, right?

Maggie crept from her bed. The floor was cold. Moxie laid her head down, refusing to move. “Coward,” she hissed at the dog.

Moxie growled, faintly.

“Yeah, big talk.” Maggie turned back to her bedroom door. Carefully, she cupped her ear against the wood. Listening attentively to the silence in the hallway beyond.

—THUMP.

“Shit
,” Maggie snapped from the door.
Someone’s out there. Someone’s in the house. But who? Come to steal—or worse…?

Another thump, this one leading away down the hall, toward the staircase. The sound was lighter, softened, and then eventually, silent. Maggie glanced over at the dog. Moxie still lay growling in faint whispers under the covers.

“Well, shall we have a look?” Maggie asked.

Moxie shivered beneath the blankets.

“Some guard dog you are.” Maggie went for the door knob. The hinges moaned slightly, enough to send chills down her spine. Braving a peek—the hallway looked empty. Darkness enveloped everything, the only light coming from the fat, nearly full white moon shining in from her bedroom window and from the living room below. She braved a foot, stepping out with naked toes onto the Oriental rug that traversed the entire upstairs corridor. The silk and wool felt soft yet chilled from the waning winter season.
Did I forget to set the heater?
she wondered.

Nothing moved. Nothing reached out with bone-chewed fingers to wrench her from the doorway. Maggie braved another step. Slowly, she walked toward the staircase. Dim moonlight came in from outside, casting strange shadows over the living room. The wood moaned beneath her feet. She looked. Nothing stirred. There was nothing here. Nothing at all. Just furniture and paintings of people and places she’d never met or been—eyes watching her every move.
Why haven’t I gotten rid of this stuff yet? Why? It’s almost as if it’s a part of the house, as if it wouldn’t be right if I did. Besides, this is supposed to be a fresh start. Nothing of the old life, the old Maggie, nothing of Smith or Ricky.

Something stirred in the shadows.

“Who’s there?” Maggie called out.

Silence.

Jesus, Mags, get a hold of yourself. There’s nobody here. No one is in your house. You’re just worked up. Tired. Stressed. Hell, maybe even a little depressed. Your husband did just die after all, no more than a year ago. I think you’ve earned a little crazy. But let’s roll it back a bit, shall we? Let’s roll back that black fuzzy carpet and get back in bed with Moxie. Maybe we’ll see Ricky in our dreams. You can slap him and tell him how much of an asshole he is for getting himself killed.

Another patch of clouds drifted outside. The moon shined in the living room. Maggie watched a tall, dark hump scurry into the study, into the darker places where the moonbeams could not touch. The familiar sound of wood thumping against wood followed in its quake.

Okay…okay…maybe it was…shit, I don’t know. A mouse? No…too big…way too big. A cat? Come on, Mags. Get real.

Maggie inched toward the study. Every nerve told her to run. To get upstairs. Hide under the covers or at the very least jump into the Volkswagen and hightail it out of here. Give the locals in Jotham something to gossip about on Sunday morning at Mass. ‘
Ole crazy widow losing her mind living all alone in that big, strange, old house.’
But she kept on. Inching closer to the study. Passing an end table next to the couch, she picked up a candle stick and held it like a club.
I don’t care who or what it is, I’m gonna knock their brains in. Break in to my place? I don’t think so…
She mocked bravery as she steadied her thoughts. Her hands trembled. Her feet were bone cold. Her jaw clinched. Goosebumps spread over her clammy skin. A shadow stood by the reading chair near the corner of the study. A tall shadow. It turned and looked at her. Another patch of moonlight broke through the window in the living room casting its white ray into the study revealing the face of a man…
or a ghost
. His skin was unnaturally pale. His beard bleached grey. He wore clothing from another era, almost colonial looking. He turned and faced her. Bearing opaque irregular teeth, he took a step. The familiar horrible thump echoed off the walls. Maggie watched, frozen, staring at the man’s gnarled wooden peg where his leg should have been. Again, she thought of Johnathan and felt sad, as well as terrified.

He took another
thump
toward her.

“Who are—you, and what the
hell
are you doing in my house?” Maggie yelled in broken spurts. Her voice pubescent.

The man smiled, somewhat humorously, as if he enjoyed terrifying her, found some sick pleasure in it all, thumping and thumping his wooden leg toward her. Maggie held the candle stick like a baseball bat, ready to swing if he came any closer.

“I’ll do it, I’ll fucking bash your brains in, asshole,” Maggie spat.

The man kept coming, thumping toward her. He reached out with his brown torn garment. He grinned like some wicked clown with his terrible misshapen teeth, reaching for her, his arm extending beyond rationality, flowing across the room like some nightmarish river of flesh.

Maggie screamed. Closing her eyes, and then swung the candle stick.

Nothing.

She hit nothing but air, spinning around on her feet ridiculously. She fell. From the floor she looked up expecting doom, but the man was gone. Vanished. She was alone. Sweat trickled down her clammy spine. The moon disappeared behind a new batch of hazy clouds outside. In the study, the shadows returned, casting her back into the dark places of the house.