The First Church (26 page)

Wood flew everywhere,
and a large panel slammed into her face.  Joan reeled back from the impact, struck the back of a chair and fell down to her knees.  She let out an involuntary
scream as she looked down.

Blood poured out of her right knee from where two screws and part of a brass hinge had punched into the joint.

She tried to stand, but couldn’t. 
Instead, she fell over onto her side, and another burst of pain ripped through her.

Her breath was ragged, and her vision became hazy.

Movement by the basement door caught her eye, and she turned her head to look.

A man stood there, headless.  Dirty.  Clad in a uniform.  In his right hand, he held a long
knife, and as he stepped into the kitchen, it seemed as though Joan could see through him.

She twisted around, ignored the pain and reached for the cabinet beneath the sink.

Something bright flashed, and blood exploded across the woodwork and the floor.

Her hand lay near her wrist, fingers still outstretched.  Dark, crimson fluid seemed to shoot from her
, and she realized, dully, how the blood surged with each pump of her heart.

Joan rolled onto her back and looked up.

The headless man was no longer headless.

He was a young Japanese man.

And he was angry.

Terribly angry.

He yelled questions at her in words she couldn’t understand.

When she didn’t answer, he snarled and drove his knife into her stomach.

Joan gasped; the pain was tremendous.  She coughed, tasted blood, and looked down as he twisted the weapon in the wound.

She shrieked for so long her throat became raw, and she vomited blood.

The dead man withdrew his blade and looked at her.  In a low
tone, he asked her another question.

Joan could only shake her head.

She couldn’t even speak.

His face became blank as he slightly lifted the knife.

Joan tried to scream again, but couldn’t.

Not even as he cut off her other hand.

Bonus Scene Chapter 4: After Work

George was tired.

He had worked a double shift, and he hadn’t been particularly enthused about it.  Overtime couldn’t be turned down, though, not when money was tight enough to begin with.

He stretched, hung his work coat up in his locker, put on his winter gear and grabbed his keys.  Some of the other guys showered, but not George.  He would clean up at home and not in front of others.

Of course,
they had dates or the bowling league.  A few would go off to the Masonic lodge.

George needed to take care of his mother.  She wouldn’t remember to eat.  Some days she didn’t even remember to shower. 
Hopefully, she hadn’t wet herself again.

He sighed and pushed the thoughts away.

After he had closed the locker and secured it,
he waved goodbye to the others and punched out.  The walk to the parking lot was cold, the night air bitter and the sky clear.  Above him, the stars shone brightly, their light joined by the
half-moons.

George smiled, got into his father’s old Pontiac and started the engine.  Within a short time, he was on Route 1A and on his way home.  He kept the radio off, turned up the heat and kept an eye out for black ice. 
The last thing he wanted was to end up like the war-lover and on a slab in the morgue.

I need to empty the bag
, George told himself.  He had slept late in the morning.  The grisly war trophies and horrific memorabilia still remained jammed into the duffel.  He stifled a yawn. 

I’ll make some coffee,
he thought. 
No work tomorrow.  I can stay up late, get everything put away and maybe get Mom out of the house for a bit in the afternoon.  Take her shopping for some new clothes.  Maybe even go down into Nashua and catch a movie, if there’s anything good playing.

George nodded and smiled to himself.  The plan was a good one.

Soon, he turned onto his street, passed through the yellow circles of light cast by the street lamps and pulled into his driveway.

All of the lights were off, but around the edges of the front room’s shades, he caught the flicker of the television.

George sighed, shook his head and put the car into park.  He turned off the engine, coughed and got out of the car.  The cold snapped at
him,
and he hurried to the side door.  As he let himself in, George paused.

A strong, familiar smell washed out of the kitchen.  His nostrils flared as he tried to identify the scent, but he couldn’t.

George stepped into the house and turned on the light.

The kitchen floor was covered in blood, splinters of wood, and his mother.

She had been butchered.

Her bloody clothes were in the sink along with her head, which seemed to be the biggest part of her.

George looked down and realized he was standing next to what looked to be her liver.

Numbly, he slowly closed the door and tried to make sense of what had happened.

But he couldn’t.

There was no way to understand it.

What happened?
he asked himself, looking around.  “What happened?”

“You brought them here,” his mother said.

George turned and looked to the front room.

His mother’s voice had come from there.  Just under the sound of the television.

He left the kitchen and went to sit on the couch.

His mother, or her ghost, sat in his father’s chair.

She looked at him, her expression sad.  In one hand, she held a glass of wine.  The other, one of her Virginia
Slim’s
.  She hadn’t smoked since his father had died.

“You’re dead,” George whispered.

His mother nodded.  “I am.  They killed me.  Butchered me like a pig.”

“Why?” George asked, then he shook his head.  “Who?”

“Those Japanese you brought into the house,” she said.  “They’re not happy.  Not at all.  I wish I knew what they wanted.  Couldn’t understand
them, though. and they couldn’t understand me.”

“I …” George shook his head.  “I didn’t bring anyone into the house, Mom.”

She looked at him sadly and sighed.  “Yes you did, George.  You went and stole
again, last night.”

George blushed.

“Don’t deny it, George.  I’m dead.  Do you understand? 
I’m dead!”
she yelled.

George winced.

She hardly ever yelled.

His mother took a sip of her wine, and then a pull
on her cigarette.  She exhaled odorless smoke and looked at him.

“You stole skulls out of Jonathan Boyd’s house,” she said accusingly. 

George nodded.

“I assume they liked it there,” his mother continued.  “And when you took them, I think you upset them.”

“Who?” George asked, feeling confused.

“The Japanese,” she said patiently.  “The Japanese.  I saw their skulls, in the bag.  Those were their skulls you stole.  I don’t think they’re happy about it.  Did you see the kitchen?”

“Yes,” he whispered.

“Did you see me?” she asked.

George nodded.

“Now tell me honestly, George, after seeing all that, do you think they’re happy?”

He shook his head.  “What should I do, Mom?”

“I think you should get those skulls
, and get them out of here,” his mother answered.  “I’m not sure what you’re going to do about me, though.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, frowning.

“George,” she said gently, “I’m spread out all over the kitchen like a struck deer on the highway.  What do you think the police are going to say when they see me?”

He straightened up.

“Oh no,” he whispered.

She nodded.  “Now, either get those skulls out of here then figure out what to do next, or just get out and run.”

The television went dead, and the light in the kitchen went out.

George was alone in the darkness with the ghost of his mother.

She sighed.

“What?” he asked.

“I think it’s too late now, George,” she said.

“Too late for what?” he said, feeling his pulse begin to race.

“Too late for you to get out.”

Bonus Scene Chapter 5: Nowhere to Run

George heard footsteps on the basement stairs.

“Mom?” he whispered.

She didn’t answer.  She was gone.

George was alone in the house with his mother’s dismembered corpse and the ghosts who had killed her.

The house, which would have been utterly familiar even in the darkness he now found himself in, became both menacing and terrifying.

The dead were coming for him.

George knew it.

He trembled as he got to his feet.  His tongue ran along his lips
nervously, and he swallowed convulsively.

I need to get out,
he thought. 
I need to get away from them.

For a moment,
he considered the side door.  He would be closer to the car.  Might even be able to get away
with it.

Yet, to get there, he would have to pass through the kitchen, and the basement was too close.

The front door.  Yes,
he thought.

George hurried to the exit.  The sensation of the cold steel of the knob against the palm of his hand sent a surge of joy through him.  With a twist and
a pull, he stepped over the threshold.

Instead of the cold January air,
he felt the warmth of the house. 

Horrified, George turned around, and walked into the closed front door.

Once more he grabbed the knob, twisted, pulled and left the house.

Only to find himself in the house again.

He couldn’t get out.

The door only opened onto itself.

George started to hyperventilate.

He heard footsteps in the kitchen and the crash of what sounded like a chair against a wall.

Nothing was right.

Nothing.

George bumped into the wall, groped his way to the stairs and fell forward.  He caught himself in time and scrambled up the worn, carpeted risers to the second floor.

He smelled the furnace and the oil tank.

He felt the chill of the basement around him as he realized he had gone down instead of up.

George turned around and found the smooth, round banister of the basement stairs.

No, no, no
, he thought, moaning softly.  George raced up the stairs and bumped into the granite walls of the basement.

I’m still downstairs!
he screamed silently. 
Oh, Jesus help me, I’m still down here!

He groped along the walls, the stone piercingly cold beneath his flesh.  George stumbled against boxes of
long-forgotten clothes, old toys, and the detritus of his father’s life.

George needed a place to hide.

Footsteps rang out on the wooden basement stairs.

His breath came in great, ragged bursts as he reached a corner, tried to push to his left and fell.

He fell for far longer than it should have taken for him to reach the floor.

When he finally landed, it wasn’t on stone, but on blankets.

Light blinded him, and he rolled away.

After a moment, he opened his eyes and found himself in the fallout shelter behind the furnace.

The light was on.

Everything was as it should be, the duffel bag still on the bed.

George was on the bed.

He sat up slowly and listened.

Nothing.

George got off the bed.

He looked around.

Was it a nightmare?
he asked himself. 
Did I come down here and fall asleep after work?

George looked down at himself and saw he was still in his work clothes.

A wave of relief washed over him.

“A nightmare,” he whispered to himself.  “Just a nightmare. 
Oh, thank God.”

He walked to the pocket door.  His mother would probably be passed out in the chair
again,
and he needed to check on her.  She would have to eat.  And he would have to draw a bath for her.