Living with Monsters

Mark sat on his sofa with his hands cupped over his mouth and nose. He had been there for quite some time. Eventually, he noticed that he was rocking ever so slightly back and forth. The familiar sound of scratching overhead reminded him why he'd been sitting in the same position for at least an hour.

There was something living in the roof. Some kind of animal. A squirrel maybe, or a bird. And there was apparently no insulation up there because he could hear the godforsaken creature scratching and scrambling around at all hours of the night. He hadn't had a good night's sleep in a week because of it, and he was definitely feeling the effects.

There was a reason he’d allowed the problem to persist for so long. Normally, when faced with a situation like this, a person simply had to call their landlord, report the problem, and then count the few remaining hours, or days until it was resolved. Mark envied those for whom it was that simple. They didn't have Eddie Dunlap for a landlord. Eddie got things done, all right, but at a steep price. Mark had already paid the price more times than he ever wanted to remember. His body ached from paying.

Well, if Eddie was so horrible, why not report him to the police, or at the very least find another apartment? Again, Mark could only dream of something so simple. Life was hard for a dancer in Boston. Jobs were scarce, and money even more so. Even with a day job---one that was part-time by necessity to allow time and energy for his chosen career---he could barely make his already low rent every month. Some months he couldn't, and then Eddie would come around, looking for a different, more disgusting kind of payment. Mark was so poor, it would have cost too much to move. He was effectively trapped, hoping every day for the big break that would get him out of this hellhole.

The scratching came again. "Oh, God damn it!" Mark shouted. He surprised himself by bursting into tears. Another sleepless night was absolutely out of the question. He had no choice but to call Eddie. Mark's hand shook as he picked up his phone and found Eddie's number in his contacts. With a final deep breath, he pressed the call button.

"Marky!" said the gruff voice on the other end. "What's the matter? You lonely?" Eddie followed his taunt with a foul, wheezing laugh.

Mark spoke flatly as he described his problem. "There's something in my ceiling," he said. "Can you come up and take a look at it?"

"Something in your ceiling?" Eddie repeated. "You're going to make me come all the way up there at ten o'clock on a Sunday night?"

For the first time that evening, Mark had a sense of what time it was. He caught sight of a clock on the wall to his left and confirmed the hour. "If it's too late...," he began, weakly.

Eddie didn't let him finish. "No, I'll be there," he said, "but you know what it'll cost you...."

Mark felt sick as the memory of those rough hands and that beer-soaked tongue assaulted him. As much as he hated being the man's plaything, he was exhausted and desperate for sleep. "Yes," he said, defeated.

"Good," said Eddie. From his tone, Mark imagined him licking his lips. "I'll be right over to check it out." And with that, the call ended.

The scratching and scraping came again. Whatever's up there, Mark thought absently, it's big and it hates me. He began to lose himself in his thoughts and worries and almost missed the sound of Eddie banging on the door. That old familiar sickness roiled in Mark's stomach as he prepared himself. At last, he rose and admitted Eddie into the apartment.

Eddie was middle-aged. Mark would have guessed he was somewhere in his late forties, but had never worked up the desire to ask. A few greasy hairs formed the world's saddest little comb over, sitting atop a round, pockmarked face. Beady eyes peered out from behind a thickly framed pair of glasses. Several days' worth of stubble was dotted with the occasional errant food crumb. It was classic Eddie chic, and would forever be burned into Mark's memory. He was made even sicker seeing that Eddie seemed to be wearing only a pair of overalls with no shirt underneath. God only knew what else Eddie had left at home.

"Miss me?" Eddie asked with a wiggle of his bushy eyebrows.

Regardless of what was to take place that night, Mark wanted it known that he was in no mood for Eddie’s cringeworthy sense of humor. Ignoring Eddie's question, he pointed to the ceiling. "There's something up there, and it's driving me crazy. Can you get rid of it please?"

"Hey," said Eddie, responding to Mark's curtness. "Chill out, skinny. Relax."

Mark hated all of Eddie's little pet names for him. Skinny, wispy, sweet lips. Others he couldn't and didn't want to remember. But what could he do? He simply sighed and flopped once more onto the couch. "I haven't slept in a week," he said, forgetting in his exhaustion that he wasn't simply talking to another normal person.

Eddie seized the opportunity that Mark had accidentally handed him. "I know something that'll make you feel real relaxed," he said. "It'll put you out like a light." He took a seat beside Mark and began rubbing the younger man’s thigh.

The dread once again came over Mark. He somehow always forgot about the dread. Maybe he blocked it out. Every time, he told himself he could handle it, he could put up with Eddie just one more time for the sake of getting what he needed, but these decisions were never made with the dread in mind. His reflexes kicked in and he jerked away from the older man. "No, please!" he said, impulsively.

"Oh, come on, buddy boy," Eddie said, a playful response to Mark's terror. "You knew this was gonna cost you." He replaced his hand on Mark's upper thigh. "And, besides... I think you like it."

Mark squirmed as Eddie leaned in close and began to kiss his neck. Between the smells of staleness and alcohol and the slimy wetness of Eddie's lips, Mark could feel the bile rising in his throat. When he felt teeth begin to nip at his flesh, he'd had it. With a show of force and violence that surprised even himself, he pushed Eddie off of him and shouted, "No! I don't want to!"

Eddie's eyes were wide with shock. "What the fuck?" he demanded.

A mix of rage and fear coursed through Mark's veins. "Stay away from me, you fucking disgusting animal!" he shouted. The words had swirled inside of him for so long, but he couldn't even enjoy their release. The look of pure evil on Eddie's face struck him to the very core.

"You fucking little faggot bitch!" Eddie erupted, pouncing on Mark and pinning him to the sofa. The weight of the older man was crushing and suffocating. "What are you gonna do?" Eddie demanded as he began to tear at Mark's clothes. "You gonna tell? Huh? You gonna report me? You wanna be homeless?" Eddie backed off just long enough to undo the flap of his overalls. "I know you want to taste this again," he taunted. "It's your favorite flavor!"

All the while, Mark protested, alternating between screams and whimpers. The fear only increased when he caught sight of something moving out of the corner of his eye. His gaze naturally followed and, to his utter horror, he saw that a panel had opened up in the ceiling. It was some kind of hatch or trapdoor he'd never known was there. His fear intensified as a pair of booted feet descended into the room. Within seconds, he and Eddie were joined by a very filthy, very angry-looking man. Eddie seemed to be none the wiser as the man pulled a knife and rushed at them.

Before Mark could even warn Eddie, the man was upon him. The stranger let out a harrowing cry as he plunged his blade into Eddie's back. Eddie tensed and howled in pain. He was cornered, and Mark beneath him. No matter how or where Eddie tried to move, he was no match for the man with the knife. All Mark could do was curl up into a ball and hide his face while the brutal slaying continued.

At last, Eddie's screams died away, and all Mark could hear was panting: his own, and that of the stranger. Slowly, Mark lifted his eyes to see the man, covered in blood, still clutching the knife, and staring down at Eddie's hacked-to-hell remains. Neither of them moved or made a sound for a long time.

At last, the stranger turned toward Mark. Mark was once again gripped with terror and frozen in place. The longer he looked, however, the softer the stranger's eyes appeared. At last, the man spoke. "I couldn't let him do that to you."

Mark felt tears welling up in his eyes. Whether they were from shock or relief, he couldn't say. When he found his voice, all he could choke out was, "Thank you."

Hearing this, the stranger smiled, and began to unbutton his dirty flannel shirt. Mark was perplexed. "Wh- what are you doing?" he stammered as he watched the flannel fall to the ground.

The man's smile became suddenly hellish. A wolf-like hunger flashed in his eyes. He looked Mark in the face and said, "Now I can have you all to myself...."