314 (Widowsfield Trilogy) Page 10

  “No, Mrs. P., everything’s okay. I’m fine. Just a silly misunderstanding.”

  Mrs. Peterson looked at Jacker warily. She was a fragile, spindly old woman, but was fiercely protective of Alma. The two of them often had long conversations in the stairwell, and Mrs. Peterson was always concerned about Alma’s love-life. It was as if the old woman was trying to keep Alma from ending up alone in an apartment, just like she was.

  “You’ve got men beating down your door in the middle of the night?”

  “He’s a friend of Paul’s,” said Alma.

  “Oh, Paul,” said Mrs. Peterson with a hopeful inflection. “Are you two back together? I always liked Paul. He’d be handsome if he cut his hair.”

  “He did,” said Jacker as he took off his cap and ran his hand over his own hair. “He shaved it bald.”

  Mrs. Peterson looked at Jacker and grimaced, unwilling to communicate with the stranger that had just broken down Alma’s door. “Alma, you just yell if you need me. Okay? I’ll have my phone ready.”

  “Okay, will do,” said Alma as she waved. “Thanks, Mrs. P.”

  “I’ve got your back, sweetie,” said the old woman as she went back up the stairs.

  Alma tried to close the door, but it drifted open now that the trim was broken. “That’s not good.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Jacker as he sheepishly shook his head. “I’m an idiot.”

  “It’s okay,” said Alma. She’d already started to like the giant oaf. He was sweet, like an awkward little brother, and she felt sorry for him despite having no reason to. “Come on in and have a seat. Want a beer?”

  “You just said the magic word.”

  “What’s that? Beer?”

  Jack snapped his finger and pointed at her as he nodded. “Bingo. You don’t turn into a ton of fun like me by turning down free beer.”

  “Considering how much it’s going to cost you to fix my door, I’d hardly call the beer free.” Alma went to the refrigerator to get him a Milk Stout.

  Jacker sighed as he looked at the damage he’d caused. “Gosh, I’m real sorry about that.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” said Alma. “I’m just joking with you. I’ll make Paul pay for it.”

  “Shoot, he doesn’t have any money. Not after getting canned.” Jacker plopped onto the center of the sofa with his long arms stretched to either side along the backboard. He looked comfortable, as if the seat was a familiar spot for him despite never having sat there before.

  “Paul got fired?”

  Jacker’s posture stiffened and he grimaced. “I guess I should learn when to keep my mouth shut. I thought you knew that.”

  “No, I didn’t. What happened?”

  “It’s a long story, and one I’ve got no business telling.”

  Alma got a glass out of the cupboard to pour Jack’s beer into.

  “I don’t need a glass,” said Jack.

  Alma sneered. “Yes you do. This is a good beer, and it tastes better in a glass. How long have you and Paul been friends?” She asked because of Jacker’s unfamiliarity with Paul’s preferred way of drinking beer.

  “About six months. I met him at the shop under his place.”

  Alma handed the beer to Jacker and suddenly remembered that she was only wearing a t-shirt and panties. “Hold that thought,” said Alma. “I’m going to go get some pants on. I want to hear why Paul got fired.”

  Jacker spoke loud enough for her to hear as she retreated down the hall to her bedroom. “I’m not going to tell you. I don’t care how much delicious beer you give me.”

  “Yes you will,” said Alma as she got to her bedroom. “I can be pretty persuasive.” She started to walk over to her dresser, but stepped on the kitchen knife that had been on her nightstand. The sharp blade sliced into the arch of her foot. She gripped the edge of the bed and cursed as she lifted her foot to inspect the damage. “Fuck!” She screamed in anger and pain.

  “You all right?” asked Jacker from the other room. “Is this for real, or are you screwing with me?”

  Alma cursed some more and tried to hop to the hallway as her foot bled. The wound gushed and droplets of blood quickly started to fall to the floor. “Mother fucker.”

  “Okay, it’s for real?” asked Jacker. “I’m coming in there. Okay? Don’t be naked or anything.”

  Alma met him at the door. She propped herself up with one hand on the threshold and the other holding her foot aloft. He stopped dead in his tracks and stared at the blood. His face turned white and his jaw drooped.

  “I stepped on something. Can you get me a towel?”

  “Oh,” he said in a whimper. He was wavering and put his hand on his head.

  “Quick,” said Alma. “I’m bleeding all over the carpet.”

  He snapped out of his momentary daze and nodded. “Okay, sure. Towel. Sure thing.” He spun in a circle in search of the bathroom, which happened to be right next to him on the left. “In here, right? Yeah, of course it is.” He retrieved a towel and then offered it with his arm extended out of the doorway, hiding his face from her.

  Alma hopped forward and swiped the white towel away from him. She wrapped her foot and waited for Jacker to come out of the small bathroom so that she could go in. He stayed hidden in there.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Me?” he asked. “Yeah, fine. Why?”

  “I need to go in there.”

  “Oh, sure. Okay.” He hurried out of the bathroom with his hand held against the side of his face, shielding his view of her.

  She glanced down at herself, worried that her odd position, with her leg lifted so high, revealed more of herself than she realized. “What’s wrong?”

  “I got up too fast. I’m woozy. I’m not great with blood.”

  “Oh, okay,” said Alma as she hopped toward the bathroom. “I thought my underwear was ripped or something.”

  “No, no,” said Jacker. His voice was weak, as if he’d grown tired all of the sudden. “I just have a bad habit of…” He stopped talking and started to lean against the wall.

  “Jacker?”

  He slumped and then collapsed in Alma’s direction. She cried out and hopped to the side as the titanic man crashed down, out cold.

  “God damn it, Paul,” she cursed her ex-boyfriend for his choice of stalwart bodyguards.

  CHAPTER 6 - Going Upstairs

  Widowsfield

  March 14th, 1996

  “What are those things?” asked Winnie Anderson, the owner of the used book store on Main Street. She was trembling as she held up a letter opener as if it could protect her from the creatures outside.

  “I don’t have a clue,” said Walter, the UPS driver that had stopped to chat with Winnie after delivering several packages of books that had been sent to the shop owner from a library a few towns over. Walter had pushed his L-Cart, still loaded with boxes, against the inside of the shop’s door to block it.

  Winnie and Walter had watched the bizarre green fog roll down the street minutes earlier, and saw the shadows of child-like creatures running through it. The howls of dogs, and then the breaking glass, had alerted them to danger. Walter decided to go out onto the street to see what had happened, but Winnie had pulled him back in the shop. She had a long-standing affection for the delivery man, and didn’t want to see him hurt.

  Walter had laughed off her concern moments before the first creature tried to attack them. It had charged through the fog on all fours, like a dog, but its body was that of a human. The creature was nude, but its skin was ripped as if something had been clawing at it. Its hands were mangled, and looked like they’d been smashed, with bones protruding from the flesh and hunks of meat dangling off the ends. Worst of all, the child-sized creature had the head of a hairless dog. Foam and blood dripped from its maw and the monstrosity was throwing itself against the glass in a desperate attempt to get into the shop.

  More of the demonic creatures appeared in the fog and started to circle the building. The Anderson Used Boo
k Store was situated on the corner of the street, with floor to ceiling windows set in tall arches three feet apart lining the wall. Within moments, the creatures crowded every window and the fog thickened around the building, eclipsing the light and leaving them in darkness.

  Winnie’s business was suffering hard times, and she’d been trying to save money by turning off the lights during the day, which she now regretted.

  “Where’s the light switch?” asked Walter as he moved behind the counter to join Winnie.

  “Near the front door.”

  “Forget that.” Walter put his arm around Winnie’s shoulder as the daylight dissipated. The darkening room revealed light coming in from up the stairs near the rear of the shop. “There’s a light on up there. Let’s go.”

  Winnie’s modest apartment was situated above the shop. She was certain that she hadn’t left a light on up there, but the wooden stairs were indeed illuminated. She followed Walter as he held her hand and guided her to the stairs.

  The wooden stairs flashed with green light and Winnie pulled her hand out of Walter’s. She took a step back in fear. He turned, but she could only see his silhouette framed by the light from upstairs.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked and held out his hand for her.

  “What’s up there?”

  Walter looked up the stairs and then back at Winnie. Green light flashed again and was reflected in the oil on Walter’s shaved head. “I don’t know, but we can’t stay down here.”

  Glass cracked from one of the nearby arches and Winnie cowered from the noise. She still gripped the letter opener in one hand while steadying herself against the counter with the other. “I don’t want to go up there.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Winnie.” Walter took a step toward her.

  She swiped her letter opener at his hand and he recoiled from the strike. Winnie wasn’t sure if she’d hit him, but apologized anyhow. “I’m sorry, Walter. I can’t go. I won’t go up there.”

  “Why not? What do you think is up there?”

  She shook her head, uncertain how to explain how she knew that something bad was waiting for them upstairs. “I don’t know. I think it’s worse up there. I don’t know why. I just know it.”

  “You’re not making any sense.”

  “Don’t go up there,” she said as one of the windows of the shop shattered. The creatures poured in and their mangled claws scrambled against the bookshelves as they crawled through the darkness.

  “Winnie!” Walter screamed at her as he rushed to the stairs.

  Winnie curled up on the floor and wrapped her arms around her legs to pull them to her chest. She was in a fetal position, staring at Walter as he ascended the stairs into the light.

  “Come on!” He continued to yell at her as he left her behind.

  Winnie closed her eyes to avoid seeing the light. She was warm and comfortable in the darkness, and didn’t want to know what Walter was about to see. She would rather let the demons devour her than witness the truth. She would rather die than go up those stairs again.

  16 Years Later

  March 10th, 2012

  “He’s out cold.” Alma stood in the frigid night air in a pair of sweats and a flimsy jacket. She had her arms wrapped around herself as she stood beside the van where Paul had been sleeping. “I tried to call you.”

  Paul rubbed his eyes as he climbed out of Jacker’s van. “Sorry, my phone died. Stupid thing can’t hold a charge for more than a few hours. Now, tell me again, what happened?”

  “Your friend bashed in my door and then I cut my foot on a knife. He saw the blood and freaked out. He fainted right in the middle of the hallway.”

  Paul smiled. “Seriously?”

  “Yes, seriously. Stop smiling, this isn’t funny.” She tried to look stern, but couldn’t help but grin along with him. She slapped Paul’s chest to get him to stop chuckling. “I can’t believe you made the poor guy stand guard outside my door.”

  “Jacker didn’t mind. He needs something to keep his mind off some shit that’s been going on in his life lately.”

  “I didn’t want you to post guard at my door.”

  Paul stretched and yawned comically loud. “I wasn’t going to leave you here without protection.”

  “So you made your friend guard me?”

  “I sat down there for a couple hours before I decided to call to see if he would come help me out.”

  “You’re crazy.” Alma started to limp back to her apartment as Paul closed the side door of the white van parked beside his motorcycle. It was the only van in the parking lot, which helped make it easy for her to find.

  “Is your foot okay?” asked Paul as he walked behind her.

  She looked down at her right foot, which she’d wrapped with gauze before putting on her shoes to head down to the van. “No, it hurts like hell. I cut the hell out of it.”

  “Come here.” Paul quickened his pace to catch up with her. He knelt beside Alma and scooped her into his arms before she could stop him.

  “No,” she said playfully as he picked her up. “Don’t do this; you’re going to kill us both.” She yelped and pressed her face into his neck as he started up the stairs to her apartment.

  “Stop wiggling or you’re going to knock us both down the stairs.”

  “I hate you sometimes,” said Alma although it was clear she didn’t mean it, at least not at that moment. She wrapped her arms tighter around his neck and enjoyed his smell. His aroma was fused with the scent of his leather coat, a mixture she adored. There was no denying how much she loved Paul and she couldn’t stop smiling as he carried her up the stairs.

  “There’s a thin line between love and hate. Isn’t that what they say?”

  “Shut up and take me home.”

  “I’ll carry you in my arms through the threshold like we just got married; and then over the big guy passed out in your hallway.” Paul and Alma laughed at the absurdity of the moment.

  “How did we end up like this?” Alma asked as Paul rounded the corner to head up the final flight of stairs to her apartment.

  Paul shrugged and then kissed the side of her head. His whiskers tickled her cheek. “Like what?”

  “Apart, and then together again, and then apart again. How did we get so screwed up?”

  Paul stopped at the top of the stairs in front of Alma’s broken door. “I don’t know. I guess I’m a sucker for messed up chicks, and you’re a sucker for idiots who don’t know a good thing when he’s got her in his arms.” He tightened his grip around her.

  Alma leered at him. “Messed up chicks, huh?”

  He grinned as if gloating. “Oh yeah, like really messed up. A borderline mental case.”

  “Shut up and kiss me.”

  He complied.

  “Alma?” said a man from inside the apartment.

  Alma recognized her father’s voice and fear overtook her. She tightened her grip around Paul as a chill of terror ran through her body.

  “Who the fuck?” asked Paul as he took the last two steps past the stairs that would allow him to see inside the apartment.

  The door was still open and Alma was hesitant to look. She couldn’t explain the emotions that welled within her as Paul carried her to the open door. For some reason, she was terrified of what lay in wait past the door at the top of the stairs. She couldn’t breathe and stared at the door as Paul approached it. Alma knew that her father was inside, and whatever he was doing would traumatize her.

  This had happened before.

  Paul set Alma down gently and then pushed the front door open further so that they could see what was happening inside the apartment. The moths continued to spin around the porch light, incensed by Paul’s approach.

  Alma’s father was in the hallway of her apartment, perched over Jacker’s body. He had one hand on the big man’s throat and the other on his chest, as if he was worried that Jacker was dead.

  “I heard someone break down your door and I came to make sure you were okay,”
said her father. “What happened?”

  Paul glanced at Alma quizzically. “Is he one of your neighbors?”

  She shook her head as the color drained from her cheeks. When she spoke, it was hardly more than a whisper. “That’s my father.”

  Paul’s expression instantly changed. His brow furrowed and he clenched his fists as he turned back to face Alma’s estranged father. “Oh, mother fucker! You’d better get your ass out of here right now.” He didn’t pause before charging into the apartment.

  Alma was too frightened to intercede, or to warn Paul that her father was dangerous. Instead, she cowered against the wall across the landing from her apartment’s door and watched Paul confront the old addict. The terror that seized her was unlike anything she’d felt since her brother disappeared.

  A memory was trying to return, and she glanced at the stairs as if they somehow played a part. The act of ascending the stairs to find her father seemed horrifyingly familiar, yet she couldn’t explain why. Her throat was clenched, her hands shook, and it was a struggle just to breathe. She had no choice but to watch as Paul protected her.

  “Back off,” said her father.

  Paul lifted the thin man off the floor and threw him down the hall toward the front door. Paul weighed significantly more than Alma’s father, and stood a couple inches taller. It was like watching an adult manhandle a child. “Get out of here, you piece of shit.”

  “I’m her father! I just came here to help. You can’t do this to me. I’ll fucking kill you, asshole. I’ll fucking kill you!”

  Paul paused and leered down at the man. He cracked his knuckles and advanced, savoring the old man’s terror. “I’m real hard to kill.”

  “You don’t know who you’re fucking with. You’re dead. You hear me?” Alma’s father staggered away from Paul and leaned against one of the bar stools as he stood back up. “I’m not kidding, man. You really fucked up. I’ll kill you for this.” He still had on the dirty, ragged clothes he’d been wearing when he confronted Alma at the restaurant. His voice still sounded fueled by methamphetamine, and the drug was giving him the courage to face Paul. He held up his fists, and then lunged with a haphazard right hook.