thing, there are more of them. There are
always
more of them. Thatâs the rule about that thing. Many more. Seething, writhing masses of more. I reholster the Glock, walk back to my car, resist the urge to jump in and drive straight into the house, madman-on-a-rampage style, and come out firing. Instead I go into the trunk, bypass the secret compartment with the heavy guns, and dig through a duffel bag until I find a can of bug spray. It seems ridiculous, I guess, but like I said, Iâll never be outgunned. Not by no killers and certainly not by no six-leggedhairy monstrosities. No, sir. I get a flashlight too, and then I walk onto the porch again and test the door.
Itâs open, and I slide ever so quietly inside.
â¢Â â¢Â â¢
Everything is in its right place in this standard American front hallway. Thereâs an old staircase, coats on the coatrack, an open door leading off to the kitchen, a few closed doors on the way. Itâs dark, but some hazy streetlight comes in through a window. I can make out the old-fashioned swirly motifs along the wallpaper leading up the stairs. Itâs dusty in here, and the air is thick with mold. But nothing moves. No one screams. No creatures crawl across the walls. I donât lower the spray, and my gun hand twitches slightly, ready. The kitchen is the same; so is the living room. Everythingâs just so, and thatâs how I know somethingâs off. Itâs all been carefully placed there, but no one lives here. The place is dead, a mask.
Iâm standing in the kitchen looking out the window into the backyard when I see it. I can stand so still I almost disappear, and it makes every tiny movement crisp, shrill even. A tree is waving around outside, making a wild shadow show on the far wall. A digital clock on the microwave blinks 12:00; a car passes. And: something scurries across the floor and disappears under the fridge. I donât freak out. I donât. I let the freak-out wash over me and pass; itâs only a jittery tremble now, and Iâm about to take a step forward when another one of âem shoots out of nowhere and makes its silent, frantic sojourn to the fridge. It pauses a couple times along the way; before itâs gone, two more appear.
Even in the darkness I can tell thereâs something different about them. Theyâre pale. Instead of that dark maroony swirl glinting with light, these are pinkish.
Anyway, maybe thereâs something rotting in there; theyâre making their way to a wretched feast. Maybe. Iswallow a little bit of vomit that found its way up into my esophagus and inch toward the fridge, my finger shuddering against the spray button.
Thereâs nothing in the fridge but an unfortunate brown stain thatâs dark in the center and spreads into lighter, crusty circles. At any second, a thing will fly out from under there and up my pant leg, Iâm positive. I step back from the fridge, carefully, and take it in. My brain knows thereâs something wrong, but my eyes canât decide what yet. Itâs one of those old antiquey ones, all bulky and aqua blue, and it stands next to the door coming in from the hallway. The front steps climb straight alongside the hallway, so the landing on the second floor should be right above my head and . . . there should be a basement. All these old houses have basements. There should be a door along the hallway wall that leads under the front steps. But there isnât. I stare harder at the fridge.
I know what Iâm about to do and I already hate myself for conceiving of it. But thereâs no other way. I place my half-gloved hands on either side of the fridge and with two quick moves tip the thing onto one side and then lurch it forward at a diagonal away from the wall. About fifty shadows skitter out around my feet, and I catch my breath, dancing backward, point the can down, and push hard on the trigger button. They scramble away in a
always
more of them. Thatâs the rule about that thing. Many more. Seething, writhing masses of more. I reholster the Glock, walk back to my car, resist the urge to jump in and drive straight into the house, madman-on-a-rampage style, and come out firing. Instead I go into the trunk, bypass the secret compartment with the heavy guns, and dig through a duffel bag until I find a can of bug spray. It seems ridiculous, I guess, but like I said, Iâll never be outgunned. Not by no killers and certainly not by no six-leggedhairy monstrosities. No, sir. I get a flashlight too, and then I walk onto the porch again and test the door.
Itâs open, and I slide ever so quietly inside.
â¢Â â¢Â â¢
Everything is in its right place in this standard American front hallway. Thereâs an old staircase, coats on the coatrack, an open door leading off to the kitchen, a few closed doors on the way. Itâs dark, but some hazy streetlight comes in through a window. I can make out the old-fashioned swirly motifs along the wallpaper leading up the stairs. Itâs dusty in here, and the air is thick with mold. But nothing moves. No one screams. No creatures crawl across the walls. I donât lower the spray, and my gun hand twitches slightly, ready. The kitchen is the same; so is the living room. Everythingâs just so, and thatâs how I know somethingâs off. Itâs all been carefully placed there, but no one lives here. The place is dead, a mask.
Iâm standing in the kitchen looking out the window into the backyard when I see it. I can stand so still I almost disappear, and it makes every tiny movement crisp, shrill even. A tree is waving around outside, making a wild shadow show on the far wall. A digital clock on the microwave blinks 12:00; a car passes. And: something scurries across the floor and disappears under the fridge. I donât freak out. I donât. I let the freak-out wash over me and pass; itâs only a jittery tremble now, and Iâm about to take a step forward when another one of âem shoots out of nowhere and makes its silent, frantic sojourn to the fridge. It pauses a couple times along the way; before itâs gone, two more appear.
Even in the darkness I can tell thereâs something different about them. Theyâre pale. Instead of that dark maroony swirl glinting with light, these are pinkish.
Anyway, maybe thereâs something rotting in there; theyâre making their way to a wretched feast. Maybe. Iswallow a little bit of vomit that found its way up into my esophagus and inch toward the fridge, my finger shuddering against the spray button.
Thereâs nothing in the fridge but an unfortunate brown stain thatâs dark in the center and spreads into lighter, crusty circles. At any second, a thing will fly out from under there and up my pant leg, Iâm positive. I step back from the fridge, carefully, and take it in. My brain knows thereâs something wrong, but my eyes canât decide what yet. Itâs one of those old antiquey ones, all bulky and aqua blue, and it stands next to the door coming in from the hallway. The front steps climb straight alongside the hallway, so the landing on the second floor should be right above my head and . . . there should be a basement. All these old houses have basements. There should be a door along the hallway wall that leads under the front steps. But there isnât. I stare harder at the fridge.
I know what Iâm about to do and I already hate myself for conceiving of it. But thereâs no other way. I place my half-gloved hands on either side of the fridge and with two quick moves tip the thing onto one side and then lurch it forward at a diagonal away from the wall. About fifty shadows skitter out around my feet, and I catch my breath, dancing backward, point the can down, and push hard on the trigger button. They scramble away in a
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