Darkness Creeps

''This is a prologue to a book I'm writing (four chapters in, WOOT!), so as I'm hungry for as much constructive crtiticism as I can get, I thought I'd upload the prologue here. It's loosely connected to another story I wrote a long time ago, Archangel, but apart from taking place in the same town, there's nothing else to connect them. Anyway, hope you enjoy!''

Randall Babbidge really didn’t like this. He told his friend—Roy Danford—this several times before they made it to the front gate of the abandoned house that sat like an open sore in the middle of town. He didn’t like wandering around at night this far in the druggie part of Archangel. Folks roaming the streets after dark made the meth-heads nervous. Folks with guns made them even more nervous. He fingered the Smith and Wesson Model 29 at his hip and breathed out slightly, trying to calm his nerves. He bought the gun to feel like Dirty Harry. Now he felt only like Randy Babbidge, recovering coke addict and balding 7-11 cashier.

“Roy,” he whispered. “Roy, I don’t like this. What makes you think that fucking house has anything good left in it? It’s a hundred years old at least.”

Roy looked back at him in annoyance. He always looked annoyed, at least where Randy was concerned. He was ten years Randy’s junior, but he’d always been the leader of their little duo. He was the one who suggested they try cocaine (just once) four years ago, the one who suggested they invest all of their money in the stock market (which thus far had only lost them money to the tune of eight thousand dollars), and he was the one who convinced Randy to come with him to steal into the old Marsh house.

“Stevie,” Roy hissed. “Stevie says he saw some old jewelry down in the basement when he went in. I fuckin’ want it, and I know you do too.”

Randy rubbed his nose; he quit the coke cold-turkey three days ago, and he was really jonesing for a fix. Withdrawal was hell. “If he saw that shit, why didn’t he grab it himself?” He was always the one asking the questions and Roy always answered in a condescending tone that made him feel like Lou Costello.

“He says he saw something weird in the basement.” He raised his eyebrows dramatically when he said “weird” and then clucked his tongue. “Said he saw something crouched on the floor there. Well, I don’t believe in no weird shit like that. Probably saw a fucking rat or raccoon and his junkie-fried head made him see things. Any more questions, or are you gonna help me with this gate?”

Randy shook his head. “Hang on, I got the bolt-cutters.” He reached down to the sack he carried in one hand and pulled them out. They were brand new, freshly lifted from a Walmart up-state. He passed them on to Roy. “Here you go,” he said, and then, under his breath, added “Abbott.”

“What?”

“Nothin’.”

Roy grabbed the bolt-cutters and spun around, fumbling in the dark to find the chain that held the gate shut. “Damn right, nothing,” he muttered. He shoved the cutters onto the chain and slammed them shut. In a few seconds, the chain crumpled into a heap at their feet. He wordlessly passed the bolt-cutters back to Randy, who stuffed them back in the sack and then slung it over his shoulder.

“C’mon,” was all Roy said, and then the two of them pulled the rusted gate open just enough to squeeze past it. The rusted hinges groaned as they tugged, making a sound that sent a shiver up Randy’s spine. Roy said he didn’t believe in weird shit, but to Randy it felt like an omen.

They padded as quietly as they could up the front steps to the massive oak door that stood solemnly before them. The wood was chipped in places, and the iron decorations that covered it had gone the pale green of bread left out for too long, but it was still an impressive sight. To Randy at least.

Roy unceremoniously tugged at the handle and was unsurprised to find it locked. “Yeah,” he said to no one in particular. “Yeah, okay.” He walked over to one of the boarded-up windows a few paces to the right and examined it. The wood there was old, too, but unlike the door it hadn’t been painstakingly stained and wasn’t covered by the awning that stretched over the small steps that led to the door. He grabbed one of the boards and tugged at it. One side came out easily, the nail long-rusted out. He adjusted his grip, hugging it tightly to his chest and twisting away. The board didn’t so much snap as bent with him, the wood splintering with little more than a tired crackle. Rain damage and time had done much of the work for him.

“You gonna just stand there, Mugsy?” Roy asked in annoyance.

Randy didn’t say anything, just ambled forward and grabbed one of the other boards. This one was stuck firmly in both sides, but a light tug in the middle snapped it in half. He twisted both sides away from the center and grabbed another board. Neither one of them spoke as they worked, but it didn’t take long before most of the rotted wood lay strewn haphazardly around them.

They would be in trouble if the glass were still there, of course. The sound of breaking glass would be loud, and it would be just their luck if some druggie with the night jitters heard them and came outside to investigate. But the window had long-ago been broken, probably by some kids with more stones than sense. There were a few jagged shards of glass still jutting out above and below, but as long as they were careful, they wouldn’t need to worry about cutting themselves.

“You sure about this, Roy? There could be wild animals in there, with all kinds of diseases—rabies, or some shit. Roy?”

But Roy wasn’t listening. He’d already hauled himself over the windowsill and stumbled inside, cursing softly to himself as he went. Randy closed his eyes for a moment and offered up a quick prayer to whatever god was out there that there wasn’t any rabies-laden squirrel lying in wait for him and then followed Roy inside, ducking under the shards of glass that hung like stalactites from the top of the window. Randy guessed that made them spelunkers. He didn’t want to be a spelunker, though. He wanted some coke and some sleep.

Roy had already pulled out his flashlight by the time Randy had gotten inside and pulled the sack he carried up in with him. The beam of light fell on faded wallpaper, overturned cabinets, and roaches that scattered into whatever shadowy nook had birthed them. Randy shivered; bugs gave him the willies, especially cockroaches. He ran his hands along his shirt, disproving the notion that suddenly filled his head that he was crawling with the things.

“Randy?” Roy whispered urgently. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Randy brushed off the top of his head in case any of the insects and managed to crawl up there and pursed his lips. “I hate bugs, Roy. Why didn’t you tell me there’d be bugs?”

Roy huffed. “Why didn’t I tell you there’d be bugs in an abandoned house? Why didn’t I tell you the sky is blue and fire’s hot?” He turned around and swept the flashlight all over. They were in a large entranceway, with an open archway leading to their left towards what had to be a dining room, and another archway opening on their right toward what Randy guessed to be a den of some kind. Before them was a staircase that stretched up toward the second floor. A small, nondescript door to the left of the staircase stood slightly ajar.

Roy pointed at it. “There,” he said, notes of sarcasm immediately replaced by those of triumph. “That must be the door to the basement.” He walked over and pulled the door open further, shining his light down in it to confirm this. “Yup,” he said, nodding his head. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small penlight, which he tossed to Randy. The penlight struck his chest and clattered to the floor.

“Fuck,” Randy swore. He bent down to retrieve it, feeling the almost slimy wood beneath his feet as he swept his hands back and forth over it. He felt a couple exposed nails and scraped his finger against a few splinters of wood that poked up before he found it, the cool metal a welcome difference from the molded floor that he was certain would buckle and crack beneath his weight. He picked it up and twisted it on. The narrow beam of light revealed a particularly drab brown moth on the wall. He chuckled softly to himself (moths he was mostly okay with), and then he felt a tickle on the hand holding the penlight. He looked down and saw a thumb-sized cockroach crawling up his wrist.

“Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Oh Fuck!” He almost shouted as he started another round of the brush-off dance, slapping the insect away as hard as he could and running his hands over his neck, shoulders, chest, and sides, anywhere the cretinous beasts could find purchase. And what was that hairy thing on his head? A rat? He begged Jesus it wasn’t a rat, tugged at it, then felt pain as he realized he was trying to pull one of the small patches of hair he had left off of his head.

“Randy, Jesus Christ, will you keep it down? The neighbors will hear you!” He leapt forward and swung his hand out, slapping Randy clean across the face. Almost immediately, Randy stopped twitching, focusing on the pain radiating across his face.

Randy kept panting, trying to shake the feeling that his flesh was even at that moment alive with all manner of insidious vermin. He counted to ten in his head like Roy taught him, then counted to ten again when he was done, then again. By then he was mostly calm, breathing in and out like a woman in labor.

“I’m not babysitting you, Randy,” Roy said softly. “Either help me and we split the cash fifty-fifty, or get out now and forfeit your share.” He looked down and noticed a roach of his own crawling up his shirt near his shoulder. He brushed it off disinterestedly and looked back up. “Bugs are bugs, and money’s money. Which one do you care about more?” He turned and shone his light up the stairs. “I’m gonna go check upstairs first. Stevie might’ve seen jewelry in the basement, but there might be other shit here too.” He trained the light in Randy’s face. His partner squinted and held up a hand to shield his eyes. “Why don’t you check out the basement first? Make yourself useful.”

“B-but,” Randy sputtered. “But why do we have to split up? What happens if I see a—” He fumbled for the right words, “—weird thing?” he finished lamely.

Roy sighed. “You’re the one with a gun, numb-nuts. So the question you gotta ask yourself is, ‘do I feel lucky?’ Well, do you?”

Randy laughed. He hated the way Roy treated him sometimes, but damned if his friend couldn’t make him laugh. “Okay,” he said. “Fine, I’ll do it. Just watch yourself, okay?”

Roy nodded. “Always do. Get to it. I want to finish up and go home in time to actually sleep tonight.” He shone his flashlight on the stairs, lighting his way as he slowly climbed them. Randy watched him go, the light fading away as he went. At last, he watched as Roy turned a corner, going into this room or that, and then steeled himself and started down the basement steps.

He could tell two things right away: One, his piddly little penlight was next to worthless, and two, the basement was clearly a last-minute addition by a tired architect. The stairs weren’t nearly as stable as those leading to the second floor looked, so he was certain he was going to step in the wrong place and go careening down to the bottom, likely breaking his foot in the process. Then he became certain of a far more sinister idea. Supposing part of the staircase was cut away, and somebody put knives at the bottom, to impale him should he fall? He thought he read about that happening in a book once. It was a Stephen King book, he was about eighty percent sure. ‘Salem’s Lot, maybe. Or Under the Dome. No, ‘Salem’s Lot. That was when that doctor died. Was it the doctor, or--?

He was so wrapped up in his inner monologue that he didn’t notice he’d reached the bottom until he felt his foot land on solid concrete. He aimed his penlight at his feet just to make sure, and yes, he’d managed to reach the basement landing without breaking a stair or impaling himself on improbably-placed steak knives. That was good. Step one over. Now step two: look around the creepy basement and hope you don’t see anything weird.

It was massive, the basement, probably as large as the house itself was wide, which made sense. Everywhere his penlight reached revealed junk. There was a bicycle that was so old, it was barely more than a few pipes soldered together and two wheels, the spokes so rusted he could probably snap them with his pinky. A mannequin—the kind that was really only an armless, headless torso—sported a moth-bitten scarf and a coat eaten through with holes. He tracked his light along the wall. There was a shelf that was covered in glass jars, some of them shattered, some containing liquid of a mysterious, and probably malodorous, nature. His light finally ran over some stone stairs, which he slid his light up, and to the slanted doors at the top. He stalked up the stairs and pushed on the doors, and they fell open, revealing a beautiful crescent-moon, flanked by the trees that grew around the property.

He suppressed a chuckle. Of course there was a cellar door around back. How else had Stevie managed to get into the basement when the front door was locked and the windows were boarded up? He almost couldn’t wait to tell Roy that for all of his smart words and superiority complex, he managed to miss this, something that would have saved them ten minutes and a lot of effort. He supposed he’d catch an earful for daring to tell Roy that he’d fucked up, but it would almost be worth it. He turned around to head back into the basement, all thoughts of six-legged abominations gone from his head, when he choked back a scream: something was there at the bottom of the stairs. Something far more than just weird.

It was crouched at the edge of the pale square of concrete illuminated by the moonlight. He could barely make out the hunched shape, but to him it looked almost human. It was too dark there to see, but he recognized two hands right at the edge, the fingers far too long, far too pointed. He heard something then, whispers that flooded the basement, almost-words that stoked fear in him. And what was even worse was that the thing was looking at him. He couldn’t make out its face, but the eyes were vaguely luminescent, glowing subtly yellow, devoid of iris or pupil.

His heartrate quickened. He held the penlight down at his feet like a rifle he was carrying, but now, like a rifle he started to raise it, and with it, the gun he’d unconsciously drawn. He didn’t know what it was, but he had no intention of letting it leave alive. He’d find out what it was and then blast it, grab Roy and skedaddle. Jagged white started to grow from the thing’s face, and with a start, Randy realized its mouth was opening. The teeth glinted in the moonlight, glinted like the shards of glass in the window from which he’d entered this fresh Hell.

In an instant, he lifted both of his hands, pointed the penlight and his revolver at the thing. But there was nothing there. He spun left and right, wildly pointing his pathetic light in every direction, but no matter where he pointed it, he saw only wall, floor, ceiling, and junk. No huddled things hiding in the dark. Nothing that would match reality to what his eyes had told him only moments before. Nothing weird.

He was tempted to back out of the cellar door to safety. Out into the night where he could just run home and hide under his blanket like he was a kid again. But then there was Roy. He couldn’t just leave his friend here. And the more he thought about it, the less sure he was that he’d even seen anything anyway. Maybe it was just what Stevie had said and withdrawal making him see things. Yeah, that must have been it. Withdrawal was Hell, after all. There was nothing there. Nothing that could have been there. He admonished himself and started back down the stairs. He thought for a moment about pulling the door closed behind him, but the irrational part of his brain that had seen the whatever it was liked having the escape hatch there just in case.

Regardless of whether he’d seen anything, however, he couldn’t deny the feeling of foreboding that was slowly growing in the pit of his stomach. The hairs on the back of his neck were perpetually erect, and his heartrate had never managed to drop back down to baseline. He was primed and pumped for fight-or-flight at the first sight of danger, and he knew full well he’d pick “flight.”

The whispering he swore he’d heard was gone. Instead, the only sounds he heard came from outside, from the wind forcing itself against trees, causing them to sway and—occasionally—knock against the house. That was all. But then, was there something else?

His nose caught a whiff of some smell he couldn’t quite identify. It was in between the stench of mold and mildew and the subtler earthy smell of the insects he was certain were breeding down here. It reminded him of food left out to rot. Not rot itself but that almost-normal smell of meat about to green. Was there old food down here?

In the back of the basement, behind boxes scattered helter-skelter all over the floor, was a metal door. The knob was broken clean off and the door itself was not completely shut, he saw, but about an inch open. Maybe that was where Stevie had claimed to see jewelry? After all, a metal door like that was obviously meant to keep people out. He started slowly toward it, heedless of the smell that started to grow stronger or the wordless whisper like wind-swept leaves that started to grow louder.

A loud slam met his ears. He jerked his head toward it and saw, with something approaching dread, that the cellar door that led to the outside had shut itself. The wind, he told himself. It had to be the wind. He turned back and then let out a sound no bigger than a mouse. The metal door was open, resting flush against the wall.

The narrow shaft of light from his penlight was swallowed by the darkness inside. Whatever was in there, the room itself must be huge. Why else would his light not make it to the back wall?

The whispers grew louder. They sounded feverish, growing loud enough that he couldn’t even call it a whisper anymore. But still it was wordless, formless. It was all around him and then, as he felt his blood turn to ice water, it seemed to be coming from next to his left ear. He was frozen, rooted to the spot. All he could do was keep pointing his penlight into the room before him, the black abyss that yawned before him devouring the light. Like it was hungry. Like it was ravenous.

A shadow slid from the darkness before him, growing along the wall on the right side of the door. It looked like an arm. Too-long fingers grew from the arm and then the shadow seemed to pulse and quicken, and suddenly it didn’t look like a shadow anymore. He couldn’t bring himself to point the light at the arm. He didn’t want to know what it was, he just kept willing his legs to move or his other arm to bring up the gun. “Fight” or “flight,” he didn’t care which anymore. The whispering in his ear suddenly grew loud, shouting in his ear with ferocity. Another black arm slid from the room before him on the other side. His gun fell to the floor before he realized he dropped it.

The penlight started to sputter. Started to fade. His breathing quickened. His heartrate quickened. The wordless shouts in his ear quickened. And then two burning, yellow eyes flashed in the dark before him, followed by glinting white teeth below them. It lunged at him.

He felt foolish for ever thinking withdrawal could compare to Hell.

 

