His voice was raspy, old and perhaps a little intoxicated. It was this latter assumption that got me in trouble.
“Someone in that house took it, and I want it back,” the grisly voice said. “If I don’t get it, I’m leaving. But I’ll be back with my car…and my wife…and you wont like that.”
A faint breeze drifted through my open window through which I could hear the old man’s odd threat out on the sidewalk in front of my house. He spoke with my neighbors in the other half of my semi-detached house.
“And,” the voice continued, “I’ll have my kids…and my gun…and you wont like that.”
From there, the wind picked up and his voice dwindled as if the faraway calls of a soul stuck in the wastelands.
I pondered the odd threat. What kind of wife and children could this man possible possess that they could be used as a threat. Honestly, given to whom the threat was being directed, I kinda hoped the man would return. If, at least, with the gun.
It’s like an unsupervised half-way house next door. More guys living there that there were bedrooms, and it was always loud and aggressive. I’d often heard their drunken bragging about their having started fights downtown for the shear fun of it. Although they’ve never directed their aggression towards myself, for I fear this would be a grave mistake on their part, they have gotten plenty inebriated, and I would just as soon be rid of them before their shit came my way.
As the evening passed slowly, both in a book and a bottle, I’d forgotten about the odd threat. Had I remembered, the combination of weed, booze and the Dean Koontz yarn I was reading most likely would have driven me to paranoia enough to take my reading, and boozing, upstairs and out of the way of any potential bullets that may fly through the walls of my lower level. Instead, I remained where I’d been when hearing the threat, laying on my couch directly in front of my window.
Hours later, still reading and boozing, (the smoking having dwindled slightly due to dizziness) and starting to doze slightly, the strangest scream emanated through the air, pulling me out of my dozy state at once. The scream was loud, shrilly, almost like that of a fax machine, digitalized. It definitely did not sound as if it had come from a person, as I’d eventually find out was the case. After the scream had carried it’s painful note on the air for what seemed an eternity, it finally faded out, slowly revealing the other sounds of the night I’d not yet noticed.
Like the gunshots, for one.
Honestly, things were so weird at this point, I can’t be certain if I’d heard the gunshots first, (the last of which was loudest, as if a sonic boom)or noticed the two, fairly large bullet holes in my living room wall, just slightly to the left of the window. Perhaps both at the same time?
My first frightened thought was that of my dog, Ra, named after the Egyptian sun God. In truth, she had been named Sarah by my ex wife prior to my meeting her. I, however, prefer more unique, not so human, names for my pets, so I compromised with Ra. The black lab was smart as a whip, and as caring and well behaved as any; with the exception of food and garbage, (which is also food in her eyes) in which case she chooses not to display her intelligence.
Now, however, my concern was not a bag full of garbage strewn across my kitchen, dining and living room floors (with a bit of banana peel and chicken carcass on my bed upstairs. Rather, my concern was that I’d find her with a couple new holes in her flank, or worse!
Have I already mentioned how lazy my dog can be at times? Luckily, she was being exactly that, lazing upstairs on the bed no doubt. Now, after hearing the ruckus outside, she stood at the top of the stairs, a low growl in her throat and her hackles raised. I rose to the top of the stairs, both to keep myself and my dog out of the way of any more potential bullets, (The gunshots no longer rang through the night, at least for now) and to get a better view of the incident in the street from my bathroom window.
Ninety percent of my time at home, Ra follows me everywhere I go. I’ve even performed an experiment to test this theory where I repeatedly climbed and descended the stairs to see if she’d indeed follow me, with honor, even if on such an aimless quest. She did so for at least twenty minutes. I was not surprised, then, when she followed me into the unlit bathroom.
I peered out the window slowly to avoid being detected from the streets below. My bathroom window sits curtain less, directly in front of a claw-foot tub, so I had to actually stand in the tub to get a proper view through the window. Ra stood beside the tub, her snout resting on the edge, but still maintaining her growl and hackles. Sadly, from my bathroom I could see no one in front. Perhaps the murderous children and wife had already found their way through the front door of the neighbor’s half of the house.
I could, however, see the car.
Now, I’m not going to pretend that I’m like the average man, for I know virtually nothing about cars. But this one disturbed me somehow. There was nothing noticeably odd about the car, but it spooked me somehow. It seemed almost as if it were the exact opposite of a light source, seeming to emanate it’s own darkness that extended like an aura just a couple inches around it’s body. This was something I didn’t quite notice visually, but rather more like something I felt, perhaps within my soul.
To describe the car, in case you yourself may be able to identify the make, was a four door, slightly elongated and it very much resembled the old cop cars, Chevy I believe. This car parked across the street directly in front of my house, however, was not white like the old cruisers, but seemed as black as midnight in the dessert. I had a feeling, however, that had I seen it in the light of day, it would be a crimson, like that of blood. This thought cause shivers to run through my entire body.
As the electricity ran up and down my spine, a loud boom, not like the gunshots, but more like the sonic boom, echoed from next door shaking what seemed to be the entire house. Deciding I needed to re-evaluate the danger of the situation next door, I told the dog to lay down and stay in the bathroom, which I was sure she wouldn’t, and I ran back down the stairs two at a time, then out the door to my backyard. I stood in a section of my yard out of sight from my neighbor’s yard and windows, and remained soundless as I tried to hear any identifying sounds that could clue me in a little more.
I heard none.
The night air seemed more silent than it ever had; no night birds, no crickets or cicadas, not even, it seemed, any traffic from the two major streets which acted as my crossroads. The air was as if dead.
I had been surprised when the dog had not followed me downstairs, but not so when she came walking out into the backyard, her undercut claws clicking loudly on the deck in the dead silence. Her hackles were still high on the scruff of her neck, but her growl had turned horribly to a slight whimper. She came to my side, not sitting, and I scratched her roughly behind the ears as I listened to the still air.
Another boom erupted from next door, this time I could tell it came from inside their half of the house, and I could feel it vibrating throughout my deck as well. I could even see the branches atop the huge oak which took up most of the sky above my backyard shake as the shock rolled through the tree’s mighty trunk and out to the tips of each appendage.
As the echoes of this third sonic boom headed off to the distance, the silence in the air seemed to deepen. Something else was wrong though, aside form the lack of noise pollution of insects and traffic, as if the very air I breathed were of a denser quality. But perhaps ‘twas simply my fear making it harder for me to breathe. I also noticed that it seemed slightly darker, if that were possible; as if the light from the street lamps was somehow dimmed by the denseness of the air.
I remained almost motionless, as did my dog, for what seemed like hours but was more likely no more than fifteen minutes. This was plenty of time for me to consider my overactive imagination, which could stop no quicker than a brakless semi truck floored downhill. I assumed it was running away from me again. The bullets had been a real enough treat, but the rest…? With rational thought I was able surmise that the rest had been imagination. This new realization gave me a new found bravery and decided it would be safe to, at least, carefully, hang my head out the front door to see what I could see.
As I cut through the house to the front, I was unnerved by the lack of two things; my dog, once again, did not follow me; and the sound of sirens had not yet broken the silence of the night. This latter gave me the idea to pick up my cordless phone from the dinning room table; perhaps the authorities had not yet been called, as doubtless as this seemed with the overabundance of noise.
I stood at my closed front door for countless minutes, listening to the night beyond. I could hear nothing; no music, no fighting noises, no screams of terror. Even the sonic boom had subsided for the time being, it seemed.
Before my imagination could start it's ignition and begin gnawing at my bravery, I swung open the door.
The night remained still and quiet, and now seemed motionless. The car was still parked cross the street, as menacing as before. But, for a brief moment, it seemed as if the aura of black had receded slightly, (as if it'd caught sight of me?)almost as if out of shock. Was it too much to feel as if the car were watching me? Almost as quickly as the aura had receded, so too did it return; almost thicker than it had been before.
I could see several cars stopped in a line at the intersection, and an obese silhouette stood on the corner of the sidewalk, the cherry of it's cigarette glowing a crimson orange.
Man, I could use a cigar myself.
Ignoring the intersection and the car, I looked to my phone and attempted to press the OK button. Nothing happened, no activation lights, no dial tone, no dead air, the button didn't even push in. I had just freshly charged the battery, it couldn't possibly need a recharge already.
Tossing the phone back onto the desk in my front hallway, I closed my door behind me and stepped out onto the sidewalk. My neighbors front door was left wide open, though I could hear nothing from inside.
I know, I know, here's where I should have gone back into my house, grabbed my non-cordless phone and called the authorities in the comfort of my own home. Sadly, my curiosity wont allow for such things. I don't hold the people of the world in high reverence either, especially any that would have dealings with the neighbors next door so I wouldn't be able just go back to my place without knowing if it was at least safe to do so. I was too deep in thought about what was going on, and I needed to some answers. (My psychologist might claim that this was the writer in me. )
I stepped closer to their door, all the while listening carefully for any tell tale noises that would indicate the presence of someone waiting for my approach. I heard none, so, slowly, I peered carefully around the corner and down the hall of their house. Aside from all the bloodstains and bullet holes it was deserted, so I entered; careful to step lightly and test each floorboard so as not to cause them to creak under my weight.
The place was a disaster, and I'm talkin' aside from the disarray that must have been caused by the recent events of tonight. Beer and other such bottles were strewn across the floor, countless pizza and Chinese take out containers littered the tables and floor, most still with aging food in them.
All the lights, save for the one in the kitchen at the far side of the house, were either off, or had been smashed in the ruckus. Glass also littered the floor and this is where I realized that I was still barefoot from when I'd been on the couch reading. The couch now felt so distant, as if months upon months had since passed. I thought of returning for my shoes. I thought of how I shouldn't be here anyways. I thought of how, if I did return for my shoes, my bravery, which already felt a need for replenishment, would subside and I'd stay home. Perhaps bring my book and a beer to bed, fall asleep for the night and forget this whole incident had occurred.
What if the neighbors never came back? could I forget then?
Pondering my choices, I glanced back into the living area, and noticed for the first time that saomeone lay on the floor beside the cluttered coffee table. Although my neighbour moved not in the slightest, I could see no blood or wounds to indicate he was dead. At thwe same time, however, I had no desire to inspect any closer.
I turned to face the door to outside, where it seemed somehow blacker than before. But it wasn't this that terrified me. It wasn't this that solidified my decision to go home, to end this. And it most certainly was not this overabundance of darkness that froze me in place, almost solidifying my instant death.
From the hallway of my neighbors house, through the open door I'd just walked through seconds ago, and across the street directly in front of my neighbors door sat the parked car. How long had I stood, trespassing, in my neighbors hall? Surely not long enough for someone to enter the car, start the ignition, (without a sound I might add) pull the car forward ever so slightly then exit the car and disappear? Yet there it sat, emanating it's aura of darkness which seemed to ebb and flow, as if breathing. Was it this aura which caused the darkness to seem richer than before? Who cares. It was final, I was getting out of this situation immediately.
Before fleeing through the front door and back into my place, I took one quick glance over my shoulder, back to the war zone. I had done so just in time to notice, and barely dodge, the fist of the huge woman who had snuck up behind me.
Her fist missed the back of my head by less than an inch, hooked towards the wall, smashed through the glass of a picture frame, and the picture, then went through the wall up to her elbow. The woman towered over me, at least seven and a half inches. She was bulky, but not in an obese way, she seemed sculpted entirely of muscle. While she was distracted pulling her arm out of the wall I made my break for the front door.
Standing, blocking my exit at the front door, were to small children. A young girl no older than seven years stood on the left in a small yellow, flowery, sundress, her small hands barely able to hold the pistol she was pointing at me. The boy, probably twelve or so, stood beside her in shorts down to his knees and a chicago bulls jersey. There was no gun in his hands.
"I don't fuckin' know how you can possibly fuckin' be here," The boy said, taking a step towards me, The girl did the same. "but a hit with that fuckin' thing in her hand, point fuckin' blank, will guaran-fuckin'-tee results."
The boy had quite the mouth on him, but it seemed as if he were trying too hard to throw the language around. I had no idea what he was talking about, and I barely had the chance to think about it before the sonic boom erupted from the gun in the girls hand.
The next thing I knew, I found myself laying on the slimy surface of a cold concrete floor. A little disoriented, and surprisingly not shackled or tied up, I stood myself up and tried to regard my surroundings in the gloomy darkness. I could see nothing.
The air was stale and musty the powerful scent of mold dominated, and hidden within the fungusy aroma, the slight tinny scent of blood. The air was thick with both stench and darkness. With the exception of the cemented floor, I had the impression of being underground, as if left sealed alive in a tomb, with nothing to eat save for the fossilised flesh of the currently unseen corpses.
As my eyes seemed to adjust to the darkness, I thought I could see shapes taking place, looming, slithering and menacing shapes just waiting for me to notice them so they could pounce on me and devour my soul. As I watched them sweep from corner to corner of my darkened, oversized coffin, I thought I could hear them, a soft, almost non-existrant, swish of the air; the sound of a leaf fluttering from the upmost bows to the grass padded earth below.
My imagination was getting the best of me, like a runnaway train attempting to stop on a dime. I needed to find my way out of the tomb; or at least confirm that I was, indeed, stuck in the confines of the earth, destined to sleep forever on the bones of the dead.
My hands out in front of me to avoid walking my head through a wall, I took short and slow steps, hoping eventually to reach the outskirts of whatever rrom I was in. Perhaps I could follow with my hands in the darkness and find a door, preferably unlocked, most likely not. Instead, I banged my knees into a pile of boxes which were not quite high enough for my hands to find. The boxes tumbled in front of me and I had to stubble slightly in the darkness to stop from tripping over them. The boxes seemed heavy as they fell, and I heard the clatter of what sounded to be hundrends of tiny shards of glass hitting the cement floor. Sidestepping to the left of the fallen boxes, I almost stumbled into another set, also piled upon one another and also heavy, seemingly filled with the same as whatever had filled the first couple. I didn't knock these ones over, but I did realize that navigating this tomb may be more difficult than I'd first expected.
I fished into my pockets with the hope of finding a lighter. I smoked a sweet brand of Captain Black Pipe tobacco cigars, and usually had a lighter with me to match. I wasn't disappointed. I pulled out the lighter, and a pack of the blacks from the side pocket of my Cargos, carefully unwrapped a single cigar and lit the end. I don't know how long I'd been out for, but my craving for the nicotine had grown imense without my knowing, and was now deeply satisfying.
The glow from my lighter as I lit my cigar revealed the tomb I was in, which was, in fact, more of an unfinished basement or cellar. The cellar was like a maze of boxes, some piled as high as the low ceiling allowed. taking another drag of my cigar, my lighter sill lit, I took a look at the boxes that had spilled to the floor.
Not glass, but bullets. A couple thousand tiny bullets, probably .22's, had spilled out of each box. If all the boxes in the cellar were so equipted, this would be an arsenal large enough for an army. This concerned me more than the thought that I'd been burried alive in a tomb. Where the hell was I? and more importantly, what the hell had I gotten myself into?
My view of the entire cellar was blocked by the towering boxes, but I needed to find a more permanent light source before my current one burned me. Already it grew warm in my fingers. Navigating quikly, but carefully on the slippery slime covered floor, I walked through the boxes, keeping my eyes open for a flashlight or, even better, a light switch. The latter was what I found first. When I swithced the two switches to the up position, only one lightbulb, in the farthest corner of the cellar, burned it's dim light. It was barely suffiecient light for me to put away my lighter, but I did so anyways. Who knew how long I'd be stuck in this cellar, and I wanted to preserve my only source of lighting my cigars for as long as I could.
After a short tour of the cellar, I found it wasn't as large as it had first seemed, and there was actually a small window on one side which allowed a little bit of the evening moonlight to penetrate the cellar. to the right of this window sat a door, which I could tell led to the outside. Upon looking out the window, I realized I must be in my neighbors cellar. I had come across another door, directly adjacent from the first, which I assumed led back upstairs. I decided, quite rationally I thought, to attempt first the door which led outside, it seemd to be the easiest route to safety, and was also slightly lit, at least for the time being.
The door was, of course, locked, so I gave it a good solid kick. This would not be the first door in my lifetime I'd had to kick down, but this was the first that didn't budge; didn't even rattle slightly in it's frame. After another unsuccesful kick, another useless loud bang that ddin't even rattle the door. I stepped again to the window.
I'd already made enough noise to alert those upstairs, so the clatter of glass breaking didn't concern me in the slightest. First I hit it with my fist, a couple times; again not the first time I'd had to do such a thing, but definatelly the first unsuccessful attempt. Next, after finding a chunk of brick that had chipped off the corner of one of the walls, I went to the window. I threw the brick with enough force to break through a board, but the glass didn't even spider. A few throws later and I gave up on this venture as well.
I hated to admit it, but it would seem my only possiblity for excape from this dungeon would be through the door upstairs. I dreaded walking that hallway again. I dreaded seeing the car parked in front of the only exit, I dreaded running into the foul mouthed boy and the girl that seemd as evil as six hundred sixty-six. Worse that all, I dreaded running into that behemouth of a woman, dreaded finding my throat graspped tightly in those huge mitts. I dreaded having her huge face being the last sight of the living world I'd see.
It seemd to be getting even darker again outside the back window. If that were possible. Perhaps the car had parked itself in the backyard now, anticipating my escape through that exit. I hoped so.
Thinking again of that giant woman, I wished I'd had a gun, if not a gun, at least some form of bludgeoning weapon that would be useful against the thick layers of fat that protected the womans skull; perhaps her skull could resist even the impact of a sledgehammer. Not that I wanted to get my hopes up, but I had the sudden realization that if there were hundreds of bullets in these boxes, perhaps, too, I would find the weapon that fired them. I checked first in the boxes that had already spilled on the floor, Nothing but the shells in these two. Having searched through five boxes, all of which were within easy reach, I decided I'd probably have better luck checking some of the boxes that were on the bottom piles. Again,k having made enough noise as it is, I wasn't concerned about alerting anyone upstairs, so instead of trying to lift the higher boxes to get at the lower, i just knocked all the boxes over. Not only was this a quicker way to access the boxes, but it also spilled most of the boxes' contents on the floor, aiding me in my search.
I found no firearms amongst the spilled contents, however, after searching through two more of the sealed boxes, my search rewarded me with a 22. calibre hand gun. Stuffing handfulls of ammo in all my pockets, including the two side pockets on the legs of my pants, I tapped the clip release at the base of the gun, checking to ensure the pistol was loaded.
To my dismay there was no clip.
Another search ensued.
Expecting the search for a clip to be longer than the handgun's had been, I was surprised when I found a samll box of five clips nestled within a box of shells. I filled each with eight shells, slapped one of the full clips in the pistol, and the other four I placed in several pockets. I truly didn't believe, nor did I hope, that I was ever going to need all this ammo, but now knowing what was lying right next door to my house, I saw no harm in preparing a small collection, even if for future use. If, indeed, I survived this night.
Now well armed, I was ready to find my way through the door, and up the stairs. I was sure, worse case scenario, I'd be able to shoot out the lock on the door, as loud as that would be and as much as that'd prepare whoever was upstairs to the fact that I now had a gun.
Steadying myself in preparation to have to kick, or shoot, the door open, I decided first to try the doorknob. To my surprise, the door was left unlocked and swung open eaily. The stairs rising upward were in darker shadows that the cellar had been. To my dismay, I realized the darkness was due to a second door, which had the potential to be locked.
Staring up the stairs, only able to see the first ten or so steps before they receded into complete darkness, I again thought I saw shadows slinking around in the stairwell, climbing on the walls, ceiling, and seemingly slinking through the air above the steps. They seemed to swirll around, like fog, but were not much darker than the darkness around them, so were hard to see.
Probably a trick of my eyes, trying to adjust to the new darkness.
Either way, I had to get out.
At the top of the strairs, the door was locked, but weak. I good solid slam from my shoulder and it popped open with barely a crack. It was dark here too, but not as dark as the stairs. I could make out the sillouhettes of furniture, garbage and doorways. Even pictures on the wall were slightly darker than the rest of the shadows.
No one was around, or so it seemed. It had seemde that way just seconds before the shotput-sized fist had barely missed my head. So the silence of the main floor wasn't any form of consolation. Regardless, the door leading to the stairs down to the cellar was at the end of the hallway which led to the front door. I wasn't wasting any seconds, I headed straight for the front door.
AUTHOR'S NOTES
The bullet holes from the beginning were from one neighbor who came after the family arrived, he had done the shooting, poorly, but he was hit by the alive car
