My mind was plagued with doubt. None of it was real. It was just another dream; an escape from the horror that was my life. When I opened my eyes I would be in the cramped back seat of the Falcon, on some stranger’s sofa, some stranger’s bed, or at the end of someone's fist. I was on another trip, dropping out of reality into... I stopped myself.

  I opened my eyes and frantically studied my surroundings. I was in the house. I really was in a house with a roof, windows, and doors that I could lock or open legally.

  I laughed through unshed tears.

  Even my mind would have never created a paradise in Eastern rural Kentucky. "That would take a hell of a lot more than a bottle of laced aspirin," I muttered.

  I kicked up my legs and scooted my socked feet to the staircase. The butterflies flew away when I noticed how dark it was on the second floor.

  At the top of the stairs was the bathroom tiled in teal and painted in a pale yellow. At least it's not pink, I thought. The thick, ivory ruffled curtains were pulled shut. The only natural light was the ambient glow from downstairs. I peeked in, there was your basic tub, sink, and toilet.

  In the hall to my left was a stark transition from dim to complete darkness. The light from downstairs barely reached more than an inch or two into the pitch-black abyss before me. I could make out a small linen closet on my right, but whatever lay beyond was hidden. I hesitated, then moved forward.

  Why don't you turn on the light switch? I thought.

  "Good grief, the light switch." I shook my head at my silliness.

  * * *

  The hall light illuminated two bedroom doors at the end of the short stucco hallway. Franklin mentioned one of the rooms was locked. I went to the door on the left first. I tried the handle and the knob resisted my strength. It was indeed locked, which made it intriguing.

  Directly behind me—on the right side of the hall—was what I assumed would be my room. I turned the knob and pushed, but nothing happened. I grimaced. I tried again, but it still wouldn’t open.

  I knew how to open a door. It just wasn't working. Again, I pushed, leaning in with my weight, and it started to give. I finally pushed with both my upper and lower body and the slab gave way. Except the door didn't open immediately into the room. It had a depth to it. I held my hand up against the threshold; it was at least seven inches thick. Then I took in the closed-in musk.

  Panic stabbed at me. Images of something locked in the darkness made me withdraw. Thoughts of running fired off in my head, but I held my place.

  I stared into the dark room. Even with the hallway light on there were deep pockets of shadows.

  I listened.

  10

  "Jesus, it's just a bedroom." I barked at myself. I couldn't believe I was jumping at phantoms after I was given what I most wanted, not just a job but a tremendous place to stay as well.

  The room had to have a light. I simply had to flip the switch. I moved into the deep threshold and reached in. I ran my hand along the wall but found nothing. Rolling my eyes, I withdrew my arm, then inched closer.

  I stretched out my arm again, huffing uneasily. Finally, my hand stumbled on the switch. I flipped the lever, and the room lit with a crackle. "That doesn't sound safe."

  The overhead light washed over the space, but the room was muted and stuffy, though the ivory-painted room was a nice size. There was a double bed centered along the wall opposite the door and covered in what looked like a homemade, Southern quilt with floral blocks. However, even with the bed's softness, the dungeon door made it feel unnatural. My eyes burned. I wanted to rub them, but I resisted fearing my hands were covered in dust, and then they’d really start itching.

  Exhausted, I plopped the bags down and collapsed onto the bed. A plume of dust shot up and settled on and around me. I sat up and brushed myself off and sneezed. "Oh, brother," I said, then I sprayed another sneeze across the room.

  I looked at the windows. There were two windows on each side of the bed. Opening them would make a huge difference in alleviating the underground feel of the room, but each was covered with heavy, ruffled, chartreuse curtains.

  The frown grew on my face as I crossed to them. Chartreuse was my Rose-Mary Grand's favorite word but her least favorite color. We always made sure to point it out whenever we saw it, and she would feign an over-dramatic reaction, “It's not the fifties anymore” then we'd both laugh.

  I held my breath as I pushed back the curtains. Through the dust cloud, instead of a warm setting sunlight and a view of the street, I found a solid, ivory-colored wall.

  "What the hell?"

  I hurried to the other window. It, too, was blocked. I stepped back, lifting the curtain. There was no enclosure, no seal where the window had been.

  I moved closer and examined the wall. The wall had a faint bumpy pattern that didn't match the rest of the house's plaster covering. I ran my fingers along the walls and they came away covered dust. I wiped them on the sides of my slacks in disgust. Looking at the clean spot from the swipe of my hand, I reached out again.

  "Concrete?" I asked in a confused whisper. The beautiful house I would be staying in had a bedroom lined with cinder blocks.

  I shivered. "It's a tomb."

  My lungs tightened in a wheeze. I didn't know if it was the dust or panic of the enclosed space.

  Questions mind about the oddities of the house were flying around inside my. My next meeting with Franklin was going to be interesting, and I was afraid to hear what the reason might be.

  When I started scratching, I knew it was time for a shower. I searched through my bags and found my soap. When I left my apartment in Georgia it had been half a bar, but that was two weeks ago. I found a loose white sock in the bottom of the first bag, my classy soap holder. I dug in and pulled out two poor slivers of soap.

  I took off my shirt and made my way down the hall. I lifted my arm and sniffed my pits. It must have been a while if I couldn't even tell I stank. I was embarrassed that Franklin had to point out my musk. Two years ago, before she died, that would never have happened.

  I let the tap run for a bit, which was a good choice as the water came out brown. I twisted my face in disgust. Either the house had plumbing issues, or it had just been sitting unused for too long.

  * * *

  I bit my fingers. It was a lose-lose for me: sleep in the tomb or shower with Satan.

  An itch climbed up my back. My skin's reaction to the dust and glass didn't believe in the devil, but my mind took it a step further imagining nails inching up my skin.

  "Stop. Stop," I told myself rolling my shoulders back.

  I took a deep breath and huffed it out. I stretched my neck to the left and right, then finished undressing.

  The hot water on my skin was the first warm embrace I'd had in a long time. However, I couldn't relax. The water had a sharp smell that made me nauseous. Plus, I kept peering over the shower curtain to look at the painting. I'd never had so much face-time with the devil. It was like a new, bizarre take on Psycho. Granted, I wasn't in a motel or a movie, but, again, I didn't really know Franklin or anyone in this strange little town.

  I thought about Franklin. I'm sure he had another key to the house, and the scenario played out in my mind: the shower curtain pulled back, a knife raised, and Franklin, or worse yet, Clint, dressed as an older woman would stab me to death. Eek, Eek, Eek.

  The sense of being watched continued as I dried off. My mind kept hearing things I was eighty percent sure were ghosts in my mind, but still, to be safe, I cracked the bathroom door and peered out. The yellow lit corridor was clear, and I hurried down the hall back to my room.

  My stomach growled as I put on my pajama bottoms. There was at least a small chance that there was food downstairs in the kitchen. That slim chance was enough for me.

  At the end of the hall, I stopped at the linen closet for a clean set of sheets, but the sets I found were for a single bed. On top of that, they were as rough as sandpaper. No big deal, I would pick up bigger sheets later.

  I chucked a couple flat sheets down the hall and they landed at the doorway to the bedroom where I could pick them up later.

  I walked softly through the kitchen, opening all the cabinet doors. There was nothing. The sour smell of the refrigerator pushed me back. It was empty and only beginning to cool. Franklin must have plugged it in right before I arrived.

  I consoled my stomach as I moved to the living room. I stared at the large shutters, Clint and Franklin's stern warning echoed in my mind. Even though they were closed, part of me expected the boogie man to come crashing through them.

  "Stop being stupid. It's just a damn house." However, I continued to stand there, looking at them.

  "Fuck it." I flung the large, white wooden shutter open. No boogie man in sight.

  I stared out at the unfamiliar setting of pastel houses with warm yellow light glowing from inside the living rooms. I looked again. Searching all the homes, none of them had visible light coming from any other place in the house.

  I wrapped my arms around my shoulders, reminding myself that regardless of all the crazy, I'd done it. I'd accomplished multiple goals in less than twelve hours. I'd gotten a job and a place to stay. Despite the dust, it was a beautiful place, and it only cost me a punch to the gut. I was starving, yes, but I'd been starving for days. I would think about food tomorrow. All in all, it was the best day I'd had in years. That's right, I thought, be grateful.

  Stepping closer to the window, I frowned, thinking about the Falcon alone out on the highway. I said a little prayer for her to be safe. After all, I'd called that small, light blue Ford home for the last two weeks.

  Again I gazed out into the nightfall. As silly as it was, I wanted to make a wish. A wish for a hopeful future in my new place, but the lights around me suddenly darkened. House by house the curtains and shutters were drawn shut. Most of the remaining light was only specks shining through gaps of cloth or lines shining through shutter slats. Nimble hands must have been at work because even those little slivers of light were quickly folded and closed away.

  The hollow was totally dark. The town had spoken, it was time for bed.

  Unnerved by the sudden darkness, I forgot my wish.

  11

  Following Franklin's instructions, I closed the shutters. I checked the dining room shutters behind me, but luckily, they were already secure.

  I hurried up the stairs, went to my room, and shut the door. The sleeping arrangements weren't ideal. The bed sheets were like burlap and, even though it was November, the room was warmer than I liked. I felt claustrophobic in my decorated, block-box room.

  I gave my ill-fitting sheet a tug and moved to the light switch. I mapped out the steps I would need to take, turned out the light, and got in bed. I rested there for a few minutes, blinking at the darkness that surrounded me. There was no peace in the room. The blackness moved around me, settled on me, harmless at first, but the weight of the room grew heavier, pushing on my body.

  Back at my old apartment, I always slept with my door closed and locked. I liked the sense of security it gave me, but I needed to be able to breathe. It was stupid that all the bedrooms in the world had windows except in Millwood. My backseat bed in the Falcon had windows. Even jails cells had windows, or at least I remembered that mine did. I got up, went to the door, and pulled on the nob with both hands, pushing off with my left foot against the frame until the door opened. I cursed under my breath, then laid back down. I glanced at the open door, made peace with it, and closed my eyes.

  It was better. Air moved around the room and the tightness in my chest released. I took a deep, satisfying breath. It was cozy.

  I lay there for a few moments, trying to find peace, but it wasn't working. I wasn't relaxing.

  I opened my eyes and stared into the hallway. "An open door is an open invitation." That's what my Rose-Mary Grand would say. I imagined some dark figure walking by, or waking up to some townsperson standing over me saying they hadn’t know anyone was home. What if a coyote or a bear got in?

  I rolled over, so my back was to the door. That way if anyone came in I wouldn't see them. My anxiety grew. I was haunted with images of hairy, brittle fingers dancing inches away from my spine.

  I swatted at the phantoms and calmed my goose-bumped skin by running my hands down my sweaty lower back.

  It was ridiculous. Not that I was freaking out, it was ridiculous the town didn't have windows in their bedrooms. Someone could break in, or there could be a fire.

  I flung myself out of bed, turned on the light, and knelt on the floor next to one of my bags. When I picked it up, the bottles inside clattered. I searched until I found the one I wanted.

  I hurried into the bathroom, unscrewed the cap, and tossed a pill on my tongue. I kept a watchful eye on the painting as I dropped my face under the faucet and took a slurp.

  I stood, making a sour face. The water's taste was almost as bad as its thick, mineral odor. I dry heaved and spit out the contents of my mouth. The pill bounced off the edge of the basin onto the floor. I bent down to pick it up. I examined the wet tablet covered in dust as I stood. I wiped it off the best I could, snarled at the thought of it being on the floor, but popped it in the back of my throat and swallowed it dry. I thought about wiping out my mouth with toilet paper, but I was just stuck with the lingering taste of tainted water and chalky dust. I shook off the taste, and the devil caught my eye. "Enjoying the show?"

  Back in my room, I laid back down on my bed with the door open. It would take some time, but the medicine would knock me out soon enough. I waited. I went through my exercise of trying not to think of anything. Sometimes I would imagine a cloud, nice and soft, forming around me. It was a good, relaxing image, but the devil wasn't having it.

  Every time I tried to relax I imagined not just someone walking in my room, but the demon from the painting stalking in to drag me to hell because I pissed him off with my parting comment.

  I pounded my fists down onto the bed and exclaimed, "My God!"

  I got up, stomped to the bathroom, and jerked down the painting. I caught his gaze as I was carrying it.

  "Don't look at me." I threw it in the hall closet, the face against the wall. "Now stay."

  Victory.

  * * *

  I walked back to my bedroom then froze.

  Skrrtch.

  I inched back to the hall closet. Images of the devil peeling and fighting its way off the canvas filled my mind. He was probably already free of his prison and standing behind the door. Another scratch.

  Some sounds arouse curiosity, but I'm not sure I wanted to know what was creating it. Another scrape, but it sounded farther away. I carefully and quietly crept along until I was a foot from the imprisoned demon.

  I stopped and listened.

  Bump.

  I released a relieved sigh when I realized the scratching was coming from below. I moved to the stairs and peered down. It was coming from outside.

  I remembered what Franklin said and repeated it, "It's a new place for you, so you might hear a bunch of noises." I shook my head. "It's just a cat. Bunches and bunches of noises. Good God, it's time to go back to bed."

  Skrrtch.

  I got to my bedroom and looked with worried eyes down the dark hall that led to the stairs. I listened for the scratching. I thought I could still hear it. I could have stood there for hours, waiting for the noises. However, luckily, a haziness covered my fears as the pill kicked in.

  Tomb, vault, noises or not, I locked the door. It wouldn't matter. The drug would do its job. It might make me a helpless victim, but at least I wouldn't know about it until I woke up dead.

  12

  A photo at the end of the hall was tilted off center. I always wondered how that was possible, how a family photo could shift. It’s not like a herd of elephants trampled through the house.

  I walked around the corner into the dark living room. I flipped the switch, but there was no light. I hated that my father used the string from the overhead light instead of the wall mounted switch.

  I didn’t need to count my steps, my body, my brain just knew. I reached up, found the string, and pulled. The light popped to life.

  “Why did I come in here?”

  I turned around, scanning the room. Looking over the items on the floral sofa, the brown arm chair, and the coffee table. They were all bare. “What did I come in here for?”

  “Matt,” a voice called from the back of the house.

  “Rose-Mary?”

  I spun to the darkened hall.

  “Matt,” her voice tightened.

  I hurried into the shadows but came out onto a misty foot trail.

  The ground was squishy beneath my feet.

  A distant voice called, “Matt?”

  I searched, but my sense of alarm faded as someone walked toward me.

  She was a beautiful woman. She wore a simple white cotton dress and a smile. We were in the forest, and she was walking toward me. The forest was alive. It was a different season. I knew because the landscape had life. The birch and oak trees and grass were green. Instead of dull gray clouds the sun was out, shining onto the canopy of the trees. It was warm. We were on the top of Black Bear Mountain. The sky was full and open around us. I could breathe, and I made sure to take advantage of that.

  The trees clicked, flickered. There was a distorted twitch. A black curtain spread across the mossy forest floor like the shadow of an approaching giant. Black blades grew, jutting out from the ground in different directions. They crystalized and turned to shards. The trees disintegrated, and a purple mountain erupted out of the brittle ground. The woman continued to walk. Her strides remained smooth even as the black rocks cut into the bottoms of her feet and blood began to flow.

 

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