Screamscapes: Tales of Terror (6 page)

Tom’s plastic cocoon was surrounded by a strange variety of objects, tossed about him in no particular order, stuff he had pried from underneath the house a long time ago, back when he still believed escape from the crawlspace was possible.

One of the objects was a three-foot length of pipe he had managed to detach from the plumbing, flooding half of the crawlspace in the process. In a pile of stuff next to his feet was quite a bit of insulated wire of various lengths; he’d once had an idea for how to use it, but had since forgotten and the project had been abandoned.

Further off to his right side were a dozen or so water bottles filled with stale urine, neatly lined up along the edge of the crawlspace wall. A few more bottles, slightly fresher, were carelessly littered here and there around him.

In the corner of the crawlspace, near the place where Miranda’s undisturbed corpse once lay, was a small, smooth circular indentation in the dirt. It was the remnant of a puddle of tears, long since dried. There was another indentation in the dirt near Tom’s waist - a puddle of urine, still quite full and wet.

Situated about thirty feet from where Tom reclined motionless in the dull, dreary and otherwise unremarkable crawlspace was a large and rather comprehensive collection of human bones.

Tom had discovered that dark, cold and silence weren’t the unholy trinity; they were the first three horsemen of his own personal apocalypse. He had realized this when the fourth and most fearsome horseman arrived: hunger.

Tom had fought valiantly to resist this strongest temptation of the flesh, but had lost the fight in the end.

The larger bones in the collection had been picked mostly clean of flesh, and were still attached to the festering, open carcass of a nude young woman, sprawled out in the mud up against the crawlspace wall.

The cold had provided plenty of refrigeration for Miranda’s tender young flesh. Tom had gnawed her thighs, calves, and biceps down to the bone; only her face and the furry parts between her legs remained entirely unmolested.

“Enjoy your fresh young meat,” Kelly had written on the back of Miranda’s photo, and Tom had done precisely that. He had been devastated to find her body here at first, but eventually discovered that Miranda was a companion with truly exquisite taste.

Time and light are almost always connected in one fashion or another and so it was with Tom. Time for him had evaporated in the darkness and left him alone with eternity.

Then, one day, light returned to the crawlspace. With it, time returned as well.

The light arrived with no sound or fanfare.

Tom was lying in his usual spot, from which he moved only on the most infrequent occasion to feed or to drink, or occasionally to void elsewhere, although more often than not he would let go wherever he lay. His eyes were open, unseeing in the darkness, when the crawlspace door pushed open.

Light streamed through the opening, and the early morning sun peeked into the darkest corners of the crawlspace.

Tom did not react at all at first, his sense of sight so wasted in the darkness that his eyes were unable at first to interpret the forgotten sensation.

After a few moments, Tom licked his dry, cracked lips and blinked. His scarred hands, fingertips blackened and dead from the frost, clenched into fists as he turned his head towards the open crawlspace door.

The warmth of the sunlight caressed his face like some long-forgotten but cherished childhood dream. His body, as if by instinct, began to slowly move towards the light.

The radiance beckoned him, and he dragged himself through the mire hand over hand, clawing at the earth beneath.

With great effort, he squirmed his way through the crawlspace door, slowly emerging into the sunlight. Anyone who might have seen his expulsion from the small dark hole could be forgiven for thinking they were witnessing a house giving birth to a human.

He lay panting on the ground, covered in afterbirth of dried blood, mud, and other bodily fluids, his nude body still mostly wrapped in the womb of plastic sheeting he had created during his long gestation underneath the house.

He made his way to his feet, wobbly and uncertain at first like a newborn foal; his eyes blinked rapidly in the bright sunshine, as he tried to comprehend the new world around him.

A look of awareness, of remembering, rose slowly in his eyes. He surveyed the house for a moment, the crawlspace door, the yard around him and the world that lay beyond.

He made his way toward the front of the house on shaky legs, dragging his feet along in a clunky shuffle, finally arriving at the steps that led up to the main entrance.

He ascended the stairs one at a time with great care and deliberation, stopping to rest briefly on each one. After what seemed like an eternity, he reached the top. The front door to his house stood open. It beckoned him and he entered.

The aroma of freshly-prepared food floated into his senses like angels on clouds. He saw his wife watching him from the kitchen down the hall. How long had it been since he had last seen her? She looked younger than he remembered. Her demeanor was relaxed, refreshed, like she’d never felt better in her entire life. Her eyes sparkled.

Tom stood motionless in the front doorway, naked and covered in his own filth, lost in the sight of her. She smiled and unfolded her arms, bidding him forward.

“Come here,” she said softly in the most silken voice he had ever heard.

He stumbled to her.

She wrapped her arms around him and pulled his ravaged body close to hers with a gentle embrace, rocking him gently like a mother with her child.

She smelled of lavender and vanilla.

“I love you, Tom,” she whispered, and kissed him lightly on his filthy cheek.

He rested his head on her breast, closed his eyes, and began to cry.

CRAWLSPACE was one of the earlier stories I started writing, and ended up being longer than I originally envisioned. I’m rather fond of the final section, the somewhat poetic outro on which it culminates.

Reactions to this story have been interesting to follow, and seem to vary depending on gender. There are two sides to every story, the axiom goes, and CRAWLSPACE is no exception. Regardless of whether you choose to place your loyalties and sympathy with the main character, or if you feel that he is getting his just desserts, the ending should still satisfy most.

As a side note, the original draft ended in a much more brutal and conclusive manner, but I think the ending as it is now puts the reader in a much greater state of psychological discomfort, and leaves the “where do they go from here” open to the imagination.

Whatever Possessed You?

R
eading weird tales and horror novels were his guilty pleasure. He felt certain he could write them, too - as brilliantly as the best of them.

Gerard Faust had long harbored the notion of quitting his job at the university, of saying
fuck it all
and finally doing what he really wanted to do: write horror for a living.

Common sense had kept him from ever giving it a try, at least until recently. He was a Professor of
Literature,
for Christ’s sakes
.
Why would he dare sully his reputation - maybe even risk his tenure - by writing bloody pulp? Even the best, most literate horror was despised and ridiculed by academia until long after the poor author was dead. Gerard was sure his own death, by starvation most likely, would be swift in coming if he tried to make a living by writing what he loved.

It
was
tempting though. He had his entire first novel completely formed in his thoughts, written in his mind. The book would be amazing, he was certain. All he had left to do was actually
write
it, to take some time off from teaching and get it done.

“You know the difference between a pizza and a horror writer?” Sonia, his wife, used to tease, whenever he’d bring up the subject.

“A pizza can actually feed a family of four?” he’d mutter. Gerard knew the answer well enough and had taken its meaning to heart, so his wish to become a full-time writer had remained simply that –
an idle wish
, a daydream.

But sometimes wishes do come true
, he secretly believed.

He had gone out for dinner with a long-lost college friend who had made something of a name for himself in the publishing industry. Casual conversation, along with a couple bottles of wine, got Gerard talking about his long-dormant book idea. His friend loved it.

To his utter surprise, a few days later Gerard found himself signing an honest-to-goodness publishing contract, complete with a hefty advance payment and a brutal six month deadline.

It seemed too good to be true, and he was afraid that maybe it was.

The challenge of turning his idea into a finished novel proved much trickier than he had anticipated. The words in his head had skillfully eluded his efforts to capture them on the page for weeks at a time. A feeling of helplessness and impending doom grew inside him as the final deadline approached; the sands of time seemed to fall faster with each passing day.

Some days, the words poured from his fingertips and the stack of pages on his desk would begin to grow. A faint glimmer of hope sparkled somewhere on the distant horizon, he felt confident.

But the feeling didn’t last long. A profound case of writer’s block once again settled over his mind like a dense fog. He knew he had to get the words flowing, and fast - his deadline was only two weeks away, and his unpaid sabbatical from teaching would end shortly thereafter. The advance for the book, half-spent already, would have to be repaid in full if he couldn’t deliver.

The thought made him shudder.

After wasting the afternoon staring at a blank screen, the inactivity of his fingers relentlessly mocked by a blinking cursor, he decided to abandon his desk and go get some fresh air. A change of scenery might help clear his mind, at least he hoped, so he hopped in the car and headed for the one place where he could almost always find fresh inspiration.

A small bell chimed overhead as Gerard pushed open the vintage stained-glass front door and stepped inside the used bookstore. He inhaled deeply, savoring the aroma of ancient inks and yellowed paper, as a connoisseur of fine wine might appreciate the bloom of a vintage year. A sense of calm washed over him.

He made his way through the racks of books towards the register at the back counter, the worn planks of the floor knocking loudly underfoot as he walked. The store was mostly empty, only a single other individual browsed through the dusty titles quietly as Gerard made his way to the back of the shop.

The register was untended. Gerard sidled up to the counter and rang the bell, glancing through the small window in the office for a sign of the clerk. The rare editions that he had come to look through were sitting in a stack behind the counter, just out of reach. He wished the shopkeeper would hurry.

He rang the bell again, impatient.

“Mr. Faust?” A soft voice came from over his shoulder.

Startled, he spun about to find a young man wearing a hoodie standing behind him. He was dirty and unkempt, and seemed extremely nervous.

“Yes?” Gerard asked, trying to recall if he knew him from somewhere. “Can I help you?”

“I hope so,” the man said, slipping his hand inside his coat as he fumbled about for something concealed within.

Gerard wondered if he was about to be mugged. He knew he was being irrational, but his pulse still quickened as he pictured the floor of the bookstore covered in his own blood and guts.

The man located whatever it was he was looking for and withdrew his hand. He wasn’t holding a weapon, to his relief. Instead, the man tightly clutched a folded square of paper between his grimy finger and thumb.

“The clerk here said you were a writer, said that you drop by sometimes, said you might be able to help me,” the man said. “I need a professional opinion on something real bad.”

He offered the folded paper, his hand trembling.