The Horror 2

THE CREEPING CITY

PART ONE

1

She discovered she was running.

Running.

Through a Stygian place barely defined by any form or depth.

From behind, a swirl of male and female voices screeched her name. Their shapes emerged around her. Or had she just noticed them?

Trees all around, tall, stretched toward her. Watching. Bare gray stalks scratched and poked her bare arms and legs. Trees growing up towards an alabaster sky turned into towers of cold stone and steel.

City.

Watching.

Knowing, but not telling.

***

I don’t believe this.

The planchette quivered.

Quit moving it, Abby demanded.

Brittany shook her head. I’m not moving it.

The teenagers sat across from each other, the aged Ouija board between them. The board’s letters, dark and bold, shone up from the faded layer of wood. Tiny candles at each corner of the board flickered flame, throwing shadows all along the bedroom walls and upon the teenagers’ soft faces.

Brittany felt the device under her fingers vibrate. She thought she heard a hum emanate from somewhere in the room. She tried to pinpoint its location, but the drone shifted position each time she focused on it.

You’re moving the triangle, Abby said.

I am not. It’s a planchette.

Whatever.

The hum gnawed at the back of Brittany’s skull and reached up into her ears.

The planchette crawled to the middle of the board. It was now warm to the touch – like a friendly hand.

Look, Brittany said.

A. Abby grinned.

A bead of sweat rolled slowly, gently, down Brittany’s back, gathering speed as it neared the bottom. The humming filled her eyes. A sliver of sticky tears formed around her eyes.

B, she said.

The planchette slid a millimeter above the B and then back down over it.

B, Abby said.

I’m not doing it, Brittany mumbled.

The planchette, down to –

Y, Brittany breathed.

Abby just kept grinning. She looked up at her friend and shook her head. This is crazy.

The wood turned to rubber beneath Brittany’s cold fingers.

D, Abby said. D?

Brittany pressed harder on the planchette to confirm it was still a piece of wood.

I.

I’m not doing it, Brittany mumbled again, louder this time. The humming drone filled her ears, eyes, and body. The warm hum. So familiar now.

Abby didn’t hear Brittany any longer. The unfolding message numbed her to any external stimulus.

E.

Brittany snatched the planchette and jammed the tip into her friend’s right eye.

***

She knew what she had done. Now she had to run.

Hide.

Faster.

Further.

If she could.

Clutching the old Ouija board to her chest, she knew there was no escape.

2

Joan’s terror started when her daughter Brittany disappeared.

Disappeared? The police said she ran away.

After . . . killing her best friend.

Joan shuddered.

Did some maniac break in, kill Abby, and kidnap Brittany?

Yes.

No.

Brittany, her only daughter, was a murderer.

***

Joan went downstairs. Her husband was there in the darkness, a glass of bourbon in a shaky hand. She was halfway down the dreary flight when she heard him talking to himself. He had to be. No one else was down there.

They know, the husband said. They keep track of all the deals people make with him. They keep an archive of all the contracts.

She took one more step and stopped when she heard a faint, muffled reply.

No. It was from above. Thunder? Wind?

They keep all that shit in the Vatican, her husband spoke. The basement.

She sat on the stairs, her mind and memories going in infinite directions. She wanted to cry, but found she was too exhausted.

***

The terror began for John when he picked up the phone one afternoon. He was home alone. Joan and Brittany had gone out to shop for curtains. He was arranging and rearranging the living room when the phone rang. He hoped it was his wife. Since moving in, every time she left his presence, he longed for her, as if he hadn’t just seen her or spent the last twenty years with the woman. This was a new feeling for him.

Hello?

No answer. Only a bit of static.

Hon? That you? he continued.

Static.

Call me back.

He hung up.

As soon as he placed the handset in the cradle a tremendous ringing erupted from the phone. John jumped, caught his breath, and picked up the handset. Again, he was greeted by static.

Hello? Joan?

Static.

Then perfect silence.

Daddy?

John dropped the phone.

The voice wasn’t Joan’s or his daughter’s.

John wanted to run out of the house and keep running. Away. Instead, he picked up the receiver.

Daddy? the voice repeated.

John slammed the handset into its cradle.

The voice was male.

A young boy’s.

***

Brittany brought home a story one evening that she shared around the dinner table. John couldn’t eat anymore afterward. Joan laughed it off and only ate a few more bites before pushing her plate away.

Some time ago, another family lived in the house. A husband, wife, and their little boy. All was well in the family until the wife began seeing things. Small objects like her little ballerina figurines disappearing, leaving nothing in their place. Larger objects like chairs melting and then regaining composition.

Just like his wife, the husband began to witness odd occurrences. Their son, however, never joined in on the family visions.

These visions intensified so much that even when they slept, the husband and wife began to hear objects poofing out of sight and dressers oozing down and up again.

Exhausted, the couple blamed their son, who hadn’t witnessed any such incidents. They believed their son was behind the strangeness, using his mind or some other supernatural power. Then they came to their senses and realized that he had no power over the objects. He was hypnotizing them, making them see what he wanted, making them go insane.

They skinned the boy alive and burned his flesh. They buried the remains somewhere in the backyard or the basement or in the walls, Brittany’s story wasn’t sure. The couple, man and wife, father and mother, then disappeared.

***

They all are, John muttered in his sleep. He was curled up on the couch, face snug in a cushion. They’re all there. Don’t believe what you’ve heard.

He rolled onto his back.

I’ve never seen it. But I’ve been there. His hand lazily found his brow and hovered over it. Right there.

***

The house shook, just once. No airliners overhead. No train passing in the distance. No ghetto rat with his pathetic car stereo cranked up.

Joan’s bathroom light was bright. No shadows here.

Joan was draped over the toilet, staring at the peaceful water disturbed by salmon bile.

***

John rocked back and forth on the couch when Joan walked into the living room. His eyes were closed, but he was silent.

Joan watched him, not wanting to break the mood by leaving or speaking.

We have to find Brittany, he finally said. The sound of his voice made Joan jump. He opened his eyes and looked over at his wife.

Joan broke down. She dropped by John’s feet and put her head on his leg. He placed his hand on her cheek. Closing her eyes, she heard him say something else, but by then, she was already asleep.

***

She set the baby in his crib, making sure he was sound asleep and safe.

Safe from what?

There is no baby.

She left the room, pulling the door slightly closed. He seemed so far away from her. There was a vast distance that she tried to reconcile, but still it remained.

So far.

She looked over her shoulder and saw the door had shut completely. It was no big deal. He slept soundlessly. He would be all right outside the comfort of his mother for a little while.

But he’s so far away.

She turned again.

There was no door.

She couldn’t breathe.

She forgot her baby’s name, screaming blindly instead.

She wished her husband was home. She wished anybody else was home with her. She was alone with her boy.

No.

Just alone.

The house ate him, she thought. Yeah. That’s it. The house got hungry and ate my precious boy up.

I never named him.

She turned around again.

The hallway wasn’t her hallway. It was wider and longer, institution gray. She was still alone. And far from her home, husband, and child. The distance could never be crossed. There were tethers holding her to what she was missing, but they could not be choked. There was a distance between them and her hands. She didn’t try to reach them.

The walls on both sides of her closed in until they surrounded her in perfect geometry. Four slabs of gray of equal height and length. They were blank, of course, for the pictures hung on them were drawn in blood and the faraway men took them down long ago.

When?

The answer posed another distance.

Sunlight passed through a window that wasn’t there before. The gray walls turned blue. The cot in the corner gained a headboard.

She stood right next to her bed, the one she cowered in when night came like it always did. She was such a little girl. But the bed and those terrible nights receded across the distance.

Home, she thought. This is home. This was home. My mommy and daddy are asleep in the next room. My baby is asleep.

She looked down at her boy.

There was something different about him, his quiet face. Shadows were falling on his skin that weren’t there before.

No. That’s not true. I just never noticed them. But now I do. I see all of them, past and present.

She tried to take a step backward, but her body rebelled against her wishes.

I can’t stay here, Joan finally declared.

She didn’t know where her husband went. Didn’t know if he was still in the house. Maybe he went outside for some air. Maybe he ran away. Or he was curled up in the basement, drunk, passed out. Again. She didn’t want to look down there. She was afraid.

Tomorrow isn’t coming.

Joan laughed. It was all she could manage to do in her empty state.

Her stomach rumbled. She couldn’t remember the last time she ate. Or when. She went to the kitchen and opened the fridge. Cold light bathed her. Chilled her. Warmed her.

Something in her stomach.

Emptiness.

Expanding warmth.

Upward into her chest.

Back.

Down her groin, into her legs.

Pain.

Parting.

Inside.

Needing to get out.

Joan collapsed to the floor. Under the sterile glow of the fridge light, she curled up, like a fetus. She clenched her eyes shut so tight until her face hurt.

Out.

Coming out.

Something alien in her stomach, in her body.

Pressure in her loins. Inflating like a balloon.

She couldn’t cry out for help.

Warm, wet, stinging.

An escape.

Sticking.

Pressure deflating.

Something skittering.

Along the floor.

***

There was still light outside, for a little while anyways. Still day.

She was leaving now. She had to find her daughter. She knew where to look, could feel the primal pull.

A mother always knows, she mused. And a father. Blood always knows.

Holding her family in her heart and mind, Joan opened the front door and squinted into the daylight.

3

. . . please repeat. Over.

All hell’s breaking loose up here! My God!

607, what is going on? Over.

My –

607!

Hiss.

607!

Hiss.

607, please come in!

My God. The machines are flying!

***

Helen didn’t like flying, which was okay since she would never fly again. Take-off was shaky, but once the jet dove into the air, the flight smoothed out, but Helen couldn’t stop the what-ifs from revolving through her brain. What if the plane suddenly dropped? And kept dropping? What if the plane broke apart, piece by piece, and plunged back to Earth?

Shortly after take-off, which seemed like hours ago to Helen, strange things began to occur, confirming all of the woman’s worries.

A tall, snobby woman sat in the next section over. Her long greasy hair was in a ponytail. By some strange luck, Helen saw the ponytail slither from between the snob’s head and headrest. It flopped around a few times until the snob felt it. She turned around and started yelling at the tiny, old lady seated behind her.

On the opposite side of the plane, a commotion began, but Helen couldn’t make out what. There was suddenly too much yelling and frantic movement all around her.

Pick him up! someone shouted.

Then someone’s cell phone floated toward the plane’s ceiling. The small black rectangle flipped forward a full 360 degrees, then sailed to the front of the plane.

Helen looked back and quickly saw that more than machines were flying.

4

Brittany didn’t know how long she’d been in the city proper.

Or how long she’d been awake on a bed that wasn’t hers.

She was dressed in new clothes, clothes she might have bought or stolen or had all along.

She sat up and saw a table, chair, and television hanging in some contraption from the wall. She was in a hotel room. A nice one.

There was something wrong with the room though. Nothing physical. It was clean and well-lit. She craned her head.

Nothing behind her.

She inspected herself.

No foreign marks. No blood. She felt fine.

But there was something wrong –

– beneath her.

She leaned over the edge of the bed and pulled up the comforter.

A nine by twelve wooden board.

The board.

Some far-away memory eroded her current calm. She leaped off the bed, barefoot, and dashed to the door. She flicked the safety chain out of its track, turned the deadbolt, and twisted the knob.

The knob wouldn’t budge.

She twisted and twisted. The knob would give slightly, but then fight off her turning. Not that the door was alive. No. Someone had to be on the other side.

Let go! she exclaimed.

She needed to get out of the room. Away from that board.

Let go!

The other person must have heard her or tired of the game. The doorknob turned easily, the door swung open, and she was on her way outside, away from the thing under the bed.

She ran down the plush hall and immediately found the board to be the least of her problems.

***

Before.

The downtown hotel might have been plush and cozy on the inside, but its exterior was anything but. It was a grimy brownstone, the kind of place you drive past and keep going. The sidewalk and concrete steps leading up to the dingy red door were all cracked as if roots slithered beneath the surface.

The tiny alcove that passed for a lobby was about ten feet long and twelve feet wide. Not that Brittany knew that exact measurement. She had a feeling that maybe she had overheard some important conversation about the hotel’s vital statistics.

The front desk was manned by a kind-looking gentleman who might have been in his fifties. He looked clean-cut, but if he was anything like the hotel, then looks deceived.

I’d like a room, Brittany calmly said.

You do?

The man inspected her.

No bags, he said. Runaway. Oh well. Fifty up front. No refunds, no questions.

Brittany dug into her pocket and withdrew two twenties and a ten. The attendant took the money, reached back, money still in hand, and took a key from the corkboard behind him. He placed the key in her opened palm.

You look like your mother, he said.

She looked over at the stairs and wished she was climbing them up to a room with a bed.

Does your mother know you’re here?

Mother?

No, she said, starting toward the stairs. She turned, expecting the man to be staring at her, but he was already going about other business.

***

Inside the room, she flicked the light switch next to the door. Everything, though she’d never seen the bed and sink before, seemed familiar. As if she expected to see this exact room.

She plopped facedown on the bed and slept.

***

Now.

Running down the hallway that kept growing longer. At the far end, closed elevator doors. Alongside, chairs thick with soft cushions, spectators to her sprint. Behind her, a hungry wolf. An asp. Grinning death.

Breezing by a door from which a group of men spilled out. Yelling. Running from their room. They looked like college students, preppy, smarmy.

They bumped into her –

– went through her!

Or her through them.

The group of six and Brittany stared at each other, halted in their mutual awe.

***

Before.

The six guys sat around the table, a radio somewhere in the room turned up to a faint whisper. They wore khakis and polo shirts; one had a nylon flight jacket on. Casual, yet stylish.

You’re crazy, said one to another.

The other leaned over the table. How else can you explain what’s going on?

The dead aren’t coming back.

Aliens, someone else chimed in.

The government.

One who had been silent the whole time stood up. I read in a book that ghosts are simply us, humans, either in the past or future and that incidents involving ghosts are simply snafus in the timestream.

Alien boy retorted, I read online that aliens are infiltrating our world and plotting to conquer us.

Why?

Revenge for Roswell.

Someone gestured to the human lump on the bed. Shouldn’t we check on Shelly?

Shelly was on her side, facing away from the powwow. Her body moved with her steady, slow breathing on top of the sheets.

Nah. She’s okay.

What if it’s not snafus in time or aliens? What if this is it – the end of the world?

What if it’s not? What if things have just changed and now we have to adjust?

What if some ancient civilization that was wiped out thousands of years ago has come back via their advanced metatechnology?

That shut everyone up. But only for a few seconds.

I wonder if this is going on anywhere else.

Wow. On a global scale. I can’t fathom –

Guys.

Everyone turned towards the voice. Shelly.

What if –

She rolled onto her back. Her face contorted and shifted, never steady, like silk in the wind.

– the dead are angry. And hungry.

Then she wasn’t over on the bed. She was falling on them from above!

The nerds scattered from the room, briefly bottlenecking at the door. One thought he was being attacked by a giant bird of some kind – beak and claws biting and scratching his throat and torso. One felt a stinging warmth burn down his back and legs. The others who were untouched by the monster thought they saw a woman a bit younger than them in the hall.

Alien Guy ran to the elevator at the end of the hallway. He jabbed the Door Close button. The young woman dashed into the car just before the doors slid shut.

Brittany backed away from the guy. She wished the elevator car was bigger.

The guy was as scared as her. He kept looking her up and down.

You’re – he started. Shaking his head, he crumpled to the floor. Brittany jabbed a floor button. Any floor.

She wanted to ask him what was going on, but she succumbed to the same affliction he did – panic silence.

The elevator bounced slightly, and then descended smoothly. Brittany looked up and saw they were going to the basement. She pressed the button for the ground floor, but the car ignored her and continued downward –

– then stopped.

Brittany kept pressing the ground floor button, but the elevator remained steadfast in its location.

The doors slid open.

Brittany stepped back, prepared for some new bizarre danger.

The basement was dark and cluttered. Old tools were scattered along the floor. Rusted paint cans sat on their sides. Brittany scrunched up her nose. A musty odor wafted into the car.

The guy got to his knees and peeked into the dank room.

Brittany searched for an emergency phone and found nothing. She tried the button again, every button. Giving up, she joined the guy on the floor.

The elevator won’t work, she said. There’s probably another way out. She nodded towards the basement. Out there.

No way.

She looked up at the car’s ceiling. We could climb.

He looked up. Do you feel that?

What? She could sense pressure coming down on them, like a change in climate. Maybe it was the depth they were at. They had nothing but concrete and darkness sitting on top of them.

A thin whistle cut into the silence.

From above.

The pair got to their feet.

Something was falling down the shaft. Brittany was sure of it.

The guy touched Brittany’s arm. Looking at his hand, he said "You’re real.