“The Way the World Ends” by Ben Waters

“The Way the World Ends” by Ben Waters

They caught up to us on my twelfth birthday. Their guns sounded strange, even though I should have been used to it. Every shot was like the branch of a metal tree snapping. A sharp Twang that made my hair stand on end. They killed three of the group before we even knew where they were. Twang mixed in with the blood-curdling cries of the dying.

“Everybody, take cover!”  Hannah sent indiscriminate shots into the forest behind us. I dropped into a low spot, pressing my body as flat as I could. I rolled over, shotgun on my chest. I peeked up just enough to see the opposite hill with trees gripping the earth to keep from plummeting into the sky. A blue flash accompanied the chilling Twang just underneath a massive tree, another one a couple of feet up the hill sent a fistful of dirt into the air, peppering me with the warm soil. The flashes were so quick I would have missed them if I hadn’t been looking right where they came from.

“Side of the hill, just underneath that big oak!”  I shouted as loudly as I could. I could see the lanky bodies, their silhouettes darting for cover as Hannah dropped one. The Crack from her rifle a welcome reprieve from the killing enemy fire. Sid and Ricky took cover behind the same massive pine a little behind, and to the right of Hannah, shooting from each side. Within a couple of seconds, the tree was smoldering from return fire.

“They’re trying to flank us! Riley, watch the left.” Sam called out, sending a handful of hot brass into my hole as he tried to stop their advance. I ripped my eyes from the opposite hill just in time to see them coming through the underbrush. I slapped one in the face with a buck shot, the heavy recoil making my shoulder hurt. They dove for cover, but I caught another one in the leg adding his guttural cry to the chaos. Only six of us still alive—no, make that five as Sam caught an enemy shot with his face. The two remaining aliens to our left had returned fire after recovering from our attack. I sent five more shells into the brush, silencing them for good. Sulfur, ash, blood, sh*t, and dirt permeated the air, making my nose run and eyes burn.

Hannah emptied her magazine into the hill-side. “Dammit, one got away. We can expect re-enforcement, soon.” She dropped her pack and started handing out boxes of ammunition. “Ammo check and empty the packs of the dead; we move in ten minutes. Ricky, watch that hill in case they’re trying to dupe us.” My ears were humming with a high-pitched whine, but I reloaded as quickly as I could.

Hannah was the last of the Marines alive from our group, so she was our default leader. Tall, thin and fit. I wondered if she would be pretty with a shower to wash off the grime and blood. It was strange to think of her like that, and I frowned a little. She kept looking at Sam: one eye was open, staring in our direction, the other one, in pieces. He had called Hannah by her last name. They had taken turns sleeping at night, one of them always walking around. I slept well, knowing they were watching out for me.

“He was a good Marine.” Sid whispered it to Hannah; I thought she might cry. She took the metal necklace he always wore and put it in her pocket.

She nodded. “I’ll miss him, but Marines don’t die.”

Sid was retired Navy, from Alabama. He had led the civilian resistance to the initial landings in his home town, until they were overwhelmed and forced north. He wore an old camo jacket and ripped blue jeans. His left shoe was missing the toe, ripped off by razor-wire during the escape. He had a full beard and tanned skin. The wrinkles around his eyes said he smiled a lot. That was before, though.

Allan’s hands were shaking too bad for him to reload, so I moved in to help, since I was done with my shotgun. One of the lenses on his glasses had a new crack through the middle and he had some wooden chips sticking to a bloody scrape on his temple. He pulled out the map and smoothed it out, his hands still shaking, but he was able to get our position.

“We’re only about twenty miles from The Facility. We should be able to beat them there.”

Ricky stood off on his own. He had met up with our group a couple of days after we escaped the attack. Alone and wounded, but he had plenty of ammunition and food. Originally, he just wanted to trade for the medicine he needed to fight infection and continue on his own, but Sam talked him into joining our group.

“Hey, Ricky, you wanna think about actually doing some shooting next time they show up? It’ll take more than a half-dozen shots from us to send them packing.” Sid had finished two of his mags and was loading the last.

“If you were a better shot, it would only take a half dozen,” Ricky replied. “I’m going ahead to try and scout some terrain, and maybe a good spot to lay an ambush or two.” He gave Sid a dirty look as he walked off. I looked to Sid, but it seemed he either didn’t see the look, or didn’t care.

Sid leans against a thin tree, thinking, putting a cigarette in his mouth he won’t smoke. Sid walks over and slaps my shoulder.

“You did good kid. I thought they had us with that tricky shit.” I nodded and tried a smile.

With the action behind us, I took stock of my surroundings. The clear morning sunlight brought out the green in the trees and bushes. The occasional bird-song broke the now pleasant stillness. Life went on, despite the world being torn apart. I wonder if the whole world will be broken or if some areas like this one would escape the devastation.

BOOM! Deep and low, a sonic boom stilled the life and shook the forest; some loose stones tumbled down the face of the hill.

“Riley, cover, now!”  I dove into the bushes, slamming my already sore shoulder into the ground.

The massive ship screamed overhead, too fast to make out any details through the branches. I noted the smoke trail was thinning; it was landing, soon. Despite being larger than a football stadium, the ship disappeared into the mountains, miles away, in only a few seconds.

Sid broke the spell of shock. “More of them? Whelp, we are indeed up sh*t creek in desperate need of a paddle at this point. Let’s double time it.” He started off at a trot. I followed the rest of the group, my pack bouncing with every step.

I liked Sid from the very start of our time together. He took me under his wing early on and showed me how to shoot. The heavy hunks of metal were rough on my arms, and I earned more than a handful of bruises from the shotgun. But, over time I was getting the hang of it.

“What the hell kind of facility is going to keep them out? You remember how quick they cut through the battalion of Marines last month?  There were only five or six of them this time and they killed half of our group. Even if we can make it to your facility, they’ll just cut us down there.” Ricky’s voice bounced as we ran. Allan, was a little more out of breath than the rest of us, but he was able to work out his reply.

“Well, uh, Ricky. The facility is powered by photosynthetic converters. The water supply comes from the underground water table that couldn’t be poisoned or fouled for a decade—and only even then if they knew where we were. The entrance has a chamber that will fill with toxic gas if an alien steps inside it and tries to open the inner doors, which are made from a combination of hardened steel composites, and blast resistant materials. It would take months of un-harassed work to break it down. The defenses are all automated and capable of being withdrawn and repaired. There is enough food to feed a million people for a year, and systems that farm in underground fields.”

“Dang, Doc. Sounds like you’ve got something to prove here.” I wasn’t quite sure why everyone called Allan ‘Doc.’

“Yes, I do. I helped design the facility.” We ran through the rest of the day, stopping only long enough to drink bottles of water and eat a light lunch.

We caught up to Ricky. He seemed just as disappointed about our arrival as we were he hadn’t found anything. A tall, thin tree jutted above the tree-line where we were.

“Looks too thin for all my heft. You wanna take a look, Riley?”  Hannah was always nice to me. She never treated me like a kid and always asked for my help with stuff.

“Sure.” I slip my pack off my shoulders and start the climb. It’s easy at first; the branches are just thick enough for me to grab. The tree starts to thin out and my climb slows. The farther up I get, the more the tree sways with the wind, but my twelve-year-old frame doesn’t weigh enough to break any of these branches even though they are thin. It’s a little unerring at first but I get used to it. About fifty feet off the ground, the view opens up. It only takes a few seconds to see through the serene landscape to the terrifying truth.

Gently sloping hills covered in evergreens. A thick black plume scars the evening sky. Snow-capped mountains in the distance, hemming in the valley on the western side. The faint sound of heavy machinery drifts across the lazy forest. Birds streak across the view, and the sun is sitting on the edge of one of the mountains, taking one last look over the valley before resting for the night. The trees to the south shake. The sweet smell of a lake to the northwest. The mist from a waterfall behind it. It’s gorgeous. One of the tall ones falls, the direction it falls tells me there is something big, right behind us, coming this way.

I climb down; there’s no time to lose.

“We have to go, they’re right behind us. Some sort of big machine is headed this way. It’s taking out trees tall enough for me to see it miles back.” No one complains, no one questions. Everyone moves. A little faster than before, but not wanting to run ourselves ragged in the event we have to turn and fight. Ricky starts to drift ahead of the group.

Dark starts to set in, making our passage slower. Doc checks his map one last time in the dying light.

“We’re right on top of it, just over this next hill and we should be able to find one of the entrances. If there’s anyone inside, they’ve likely already picked us up on the seismographs, but they’re also getting that machine back there, and they won’t want to take the chance we’re some advance search party and reveal themselves. We’ll have to get into the chamber so they can see we’re human.”

Thankfully it doesn’t take Doc long to get us into the entrance chamber.

The chamber was large, large enough for a pair of crawlers side by side. We stood on the western wall, moving in to the massive space like rats to a trap. Red lights came on, giving us enough of a glow to make out the shapes of those around us, the doorway we entered snapped shut. I could hear the faint hum of machinery, so low it was more of a feeling than a sound. Doc moved to the wall, he pressed a hidden catch and a portion of the stone face slid up without a sound. A little computer screen and keyboard in the hiding spot. He typed into the keyboard, the technology looked ancient. Analog input.

“Sh*t.” Doc stared at the screen. The outer doors started to slide closed.

“What’s going on?” Sid walked over to him. I followed, wanting to know what happened. Ricky moved to the inner doors, using his flashlight to examine the construction.

“We’ve got a big problem. They won’t open the doors.”

“The hell you mean they won’t open the doors? Don’t they know there’s aliens coming?”

“That’s just it, Sid.” Doc had a look on his face I didn’t understand. “The aliens are already here.”

Silence.

I could see Sid thinking. His shoulders hunched a little and his eyes flicked around the room.

Hannah clicked her safety off and looked at Ricky. He was far enough away he might have been out of ear-shot.

“Like here in this room?” I started to shake. Edging closer to the comfort of Sid and Doc.

Sid put his hand on my shoulder. “Don’t worry, kiddo.”

“They say that the sensors can’t determine who, but that there is definitely an alien in this room. They say.. Oh shi..” Doc’s eyes are sliding across the screen as fast as the words are appearing. “We’ve got five minutes before they pump the room full of gas and kill us all.”

“Now, wait just one God-d*mned minute. They can’t just kill five people.”

“They can and they will if they think there’s an alien in this room.” Doc looked at each of us in the red light, our faces nothing but planes and angles. “If even one of them gets through that door, it could mean compromising of the entire facility.”

I started to cry. I didn’t mean to; it just sort of happened. “Maybe their scanner thingy is broken, or it’s just confused because that machine is so close.” I hated how little I sounded, my sobs breaking up my words, but I couldn’t help it. “This isn’t fair!”  

Ricky walked over, his rifle’s safety also off. I clicked mine off when Sid and Doc did.

Three minutes left.

Doc was typing on the computer, but whoever was on the other end stopped replying. Sid fingered his rifle. Our packs were piled up against the wall, We stood in a loose circle, un-easy glances the only conversation.

“Got it!” Sid walked back to Doc. “Tell them to open the outer door up, we’ll walk out, one by one, whenever their alarm thingy clears we’ll know who it is. If it doesn’t, which is what I’d bet on, we’ll know it’s broke.”

“Sid, the only way those doors open, is if that warning light clears. They want to dissect one of them to see what we’re dealing with. We can detect them, we know some of them can make themselves look like humans, but we don’t know how they work. A dead alien is more valuable than the four other lives.

One minute.

“Then they can dissect the alien when we kill it!”  Sid was worked up. Ricky and Hannah had locked eyes, neither one moving an inch.

A line of text flashed on the screen.

“They don’t trust us to kill it.” Doc relayed the message to us all.

Tears continued to stream. I started to sob

“Then I’ll kill it now.” Ricky said it and he shoved Doc into the wall. The rifle barked and Doc fell to the floor with a hole in his chest. The red light stayed on. Hannah moved in front of me and started shooting. Ricky caught one shot in the shoulder, but he killed Sid with his next shot. The red light stayed on. Hannah’s rifle went wide, but Ricky’s third dropped her. Something wet and sticky covered me. The red light stayed on. I blasted my shotgun without thinking to aim, pumping shell after shell in Ricky’s direction, peppering Ricky in the chest, throat and face, slamming him into the wall. He gasped for breath and his chest made a sucking noise.

Thirty seconds.

A line of text came across the screen.

-It’s still alive.-

Ten seconds

Ricky looked at me through hazy eyes. The accusation, the hatred, the anger, were all palpable.

A line of text came across the screen.

-It’s still alive.-

“I’m out!” tears fell from my face, Ricky’s eyes bugged out staring at me. He was alive, but barely. It looked like gallons of blood on the floor. He was getting weaker. “Please open the door!”  I fell down sobbing. “I don’t want to die!”

It had been twenty seconds. No hiss, no coughing. A line of white straight up and down in front of me. It grew wider every second.

The doors were opening. A squad of men dressed in full battle gear with masks on came in, assault rifles at the ready. One of them grabbed me and brought me into the facility.

I left the room at the exact second Ricky’s heart stopped beating. The red light went out.

The facility fell two weeks later.

The aliens got in through one of the ventilation ducts, impossible to find except from the inside. No humans inside survived.

No one, that is, except for me, and my fellow Aliens.

About the Author

Ben Waters.jpg

Ben Waters is a new writer, building his stack of rejections, and enjoying himself trying out different styles and genres. He operates a blog, pentenacity.com, is a part time student, full time father, and active duty US Navy.

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The Moreau Witches Mini-Contest: 3 Months of YouTube Red

The Moreau Witches Mini-Contest: 3 Months of YouTube Red

Alexis Chateau

For Halloween in 2016, I spent the month sharing a paranormal murder mystery set in the Victorian era. At the time, I had just wanted to share a fun story, but it grew to be so much more than that. Many of you fell in love with the characters, admiring their strengths as much as their weaknesses, and their fight for freedom.

But how well do you know or remember The Moreau Witches? While I continue to work on the book, I thought I’d put a quick contest to test that memory. The prize will be a coupon from Skullcandy, offering *3 Months of YouTube Red.

The winner will have until April 1 at midnight to redeem the offer, so this contest will end on March 29th. To win, all you need to do is answer the questions below:

  1. What was the name of Madeleine Moreau’s tutor in Barfleur?
  2. What relation…

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“Layers Part 6” by Kaine Andrews

“Layers Part 6” by Kaine Andrews

Part VI

I moved to the door, nudging it the rest of the way open with my knuckles. The room beyond was the bathroom, fully decked out in yellow paisley wallpaper, antiseptic green tile, and baby-blue formica fixtures.

I saw myself in the mirror for a moment as I scanned the room. It was almost like looking at a stranger. My hair, instead of being straight and brown, had gone frizzy and white. My face had none of its usual color, bleached almost the color of my hair, and the lines of old scars were replaced with the ruts and grooves of age.

I looked away quickly. I didn’t want to see what else coming here might have done to me.

I could see the toilet peeking out around a small corner in an alcove to the right, a dead sunlamp mounted above it. I wondered who’d sit on the crapper with a heat lamp pointed at their face. Assuming it was Dad, I decided he was even weirder than his little house of horrors might have revealed.

To the right was a combination bath and shower, the only thing showing any real signs of use in the house so far. Unlike the other fixtures, the lip of the tub was chipped in places, showing the rusty metal beneath. There were small puddles of mossy water, breeding who-knew-what sorts of bacteria splashed on the floor beside the tub and along the rim. Blocking the view of whatever lay within was a vinyl shower curtain with a seascape pattern that looked more mid-90s than late-60s.

The crying was coming from behind the curtain. Steeling myself as best I could, I wadded one side of the curtain up in a trembling fist and yanked it back.

There he was. After all this time, all the bad dreams and wakeful nights, he was here in front of me. It wasn’t so bad. It was almost anticlimactic.

The thing in the shower stall was tall; probably just shy of seven feet. How I hadn’t seen its head peeking out over the top before pulling the curtain back was a mystery, but one easily solved. He hadn’t wanted me to see him, not until it was time.

The face was a pitted ruin, flaps of black and blue flesh interspersed with hillocks of burned and mutilated flesh, some of it leaking fluids that I didn’t want to consider. The whole of it looked like a mask that had been poorly stapled over a mannequin head. The eye sockets, like those of the family up front, were empty. Instead of flesh or whatever passed for a brain beyond, there were flickering flames that occasionally turned a rotten green. The mouth was just a wide gash, ringed with split lips and fractured teeth. It lay open though unmoving. The crying was coming from there.

The body was wasted, emaciated. Bones jutted through the broken skin in places, giving the impression of a skeleton someone had laid a sheet over and tried their best to stitch in place. At the shoulders, ragged wing-like flaps of skin hung. Unlike the rest of the meat on the thing, they were pallid, shot through with tattered holes as though moths – or something worse – had been gnawing at them.

The arms were longer than they should have been, hanging almost to the thing’s knees. It didn’t have hands; instead, it had spade-shaped claws with three fingers each, tipped with nails that extended several inches past the fingertip, black with veins of silver and red shot through them and looking razor sharp.

The crying stopped. The edges of that jagged gash in the middle of its face slid upwards and I was horrified to realize it was trying to smile. The fear came flooding back at that, caving in my chest with the force of a sledgehammer.

“You came,” it whispered.

One of those claws shot out towards me, circling those talons around my forearm. Though it looked fragile and skeletal, there was a terrible strength behind it and I could feel the bicep and the bone beneath screaming and creaking under the pressure.

I felt blood running down my arm, and realized the thing’s claws had punctured the flesh. The pressure increased. It was dragging me closer.

“You came,” it whispered a second time.

I began to scream.

This story was originally published at KaineAndrews.com. Intrigued? Stay tuned for Part 7, next Thursday!

About the Author

Kaine Andrews

Kaine Andrews was raised in the wilds of Nevada, molded by NASCAR-loving witches, a Catholic school education and typewriter theft, granting a natural fascination with all things dark and dreary and demented scribblings. He currently resides in Oregon, where the omnipresent drizzle keeps him somewhat sane.

Black Catastrophy

“Layers Part 5” by Kaine Andrews

“Layers Part 5” by Kaine Andrews

Part V

I turned away from the portrait of a happy family, slinking past the couches with all the hair on my body standing straight up. They’d never bothered me before, and whatever logic remained in this hellhole said they wouldn’t… but after the television, I wasn’t certain that things here were going to go 100% according to the script. Something was different this time. Maybe because I was actually here, instead of just visiting in my sleep. Maybe because what was waiting for me had gotten impatient and greedy, or maybe it was just stronger.

Once I was past them, creeping into the hallway, I lowered my guard. Just a bit, but enough that I felt I could breathe without sounding like a broken teakettle. I glanced back over my shoulder, not surprised when I saw that Mom and Dad’s heads weren’t visible over the top of the couch, and I couldn’t see Sis sprawled out on the other one. They’d vanished.

I was okay with that. One less thing to worry about, at least for now. What was coming was worse than their eyeless stares.

The crying was louder back here. I knew where I was supposed to go – the door at the end of the hall – but still wanted to put it off as long as I could. Wanted to make sure there were no other nasty surprises. Besides, I had to follow the script; I was sure if I tried to beeline it, something would stop me. I had to check the other door first.

I laid my hand on the doorknob to the left and pushed the door open a crack. The crying intensified for a moment, a brief period where it seemed like it was coming from right in front of me. Then it receded, as though falling down a long well.

The door opened on a walk-in closet. A blue plastic bowling ball bag sat in the corner, the outer layer peeling and flaking. A long brown coat that looked like it was last in style sometime during the flapper era, reeking of mothballs and stale cigars, hung above it. A pair of battered cardboard boxes, the edges cracked outwards and yellowed with age, sat on the shelf above. One was a Monopoly set; the one on top was the old Parker Brothers Ouija board. Some people might have taken that as a bad sign; I figured the family had worse supernatural crap to worry about than a plastic planchette and a mass-produced particle board alphabet.

I pulled the door shut and turned back to the end of the hall. The crying was obviously coming from there. I moved towards it, feeling like I was walking through water rather than air. Something beyond the door was radiating something, an aura deadlier and more poisonous than radiation. I couldn’t let it stop me. She needed me.

I reached the end of the hall and pushed the door open. Even though I knew there was nothing to fear – at least, not right now – I still winced as the door rebounded off the wall, and kept one eye to a slit as I scanned the room beyond. Just in case.

The room beyond was a bedroom. The shag carpet continued, though it looked less walked on in here. To the left was a smooth wall, a recessed and half-open door beckoning at the midpoint. Ahead was an old-time slot machine, neon glass, chromed buzzer on top, polished level to the side, almost begging to be pulled. The lights were dark, and a thin layer of grime over the windows said it hadn’t been used in a long time, probably even longer than the television out front.

To the right was the bed, and as I came into the room and turned my attention to it, I saw a shape squirming in the middle, underneath the thin brown blanket that was otherwise without blemish, pulled perfectly up against the gleaming white pillows. The crying became louder again, very clearly from the bed.

I walked towards it, grabbing hold of the blanket’s loose edge on the right side of the bed. The image of myself in my head was that of a bad magician attempting the tablecloth trick, as I whipped the blanket away and let it fly into the corner. It crumpled there like the discarded flesh of an uncleanly killed animal, revealing the layer beneath.

There was an indentation in the bare mattress, right in the middle where the shape had been before I pulled the blankets away. The crying seemed to be coming from that same spot. I reached out and placed my hand on the mattress, feeling the smooth fabric cool against my skin. Sliding my hand towards the indent, even as it was rising to the same level as the rest, I felt the heat coming from it, as though a body had lain there not long before.

The crying stopped as I pulled my hand away. I glanced over my shoulder, to the half-open door. As I stared, the door wobbled in the frame, as though something had passed by it with a gentle nudge. The crying started again, coming from the room beyond. I backed away from the bed, taking a deep breath.

If there was any consolation to be hand, it was this: It was almost over.

This story was originally published at KaineAndrews.com. Intrigued? Stay tuned for Part 6, next Thursday!

About the Author

Kaine Andrews

Kaine Andrews was raised in the wilds of Nevada, molded by NASCAR-loving witches, a Catholic school education and typewriter theft, granting a natural fascination with all things dark and dreary and demented scribblings. He currently resides in Oregon, where the omnipresent drizzle keeps him somewhat sane.

Black Catastrophy

“Layers Part 4” by Kaine Andrews

“Layers Part 4” by Kaine Andrews

Part IV

Mom and Sis didn’t seem like it mattered to them one way or another that there was a gangly loser standing in their doorway, one who was trying to scream and had the reek of fresh urine hanging about him. Dad noticed, though. It looked like it was what he wanted because I could see the hard lines in that face go smooth, then contract in the other direction as his lips pulled back in a smile. His teeth were missing; only ragged gums and a flopping, greenish thing. Beyond that I guessed was his tongue.

As one, they turned away from me, rotating their heads towards the ancient television. Dad stopped smiling. My lungs unlocked enough for the shriek to slip past my lips and allow me to take a ragged breath.

The reprieve was short-lived. There was a solid thunk from the direction of the entertainment center, followed by the distinct hum of old technology powering up. A moment later the house was filled with a test tone cranked up to almost deafening levels. I screamed again, this time actually getting one out, but nobody could have heard it over that noise. Covering my ears, I looked over at the television and saw it was displaying one of those old Indian Head title cards in grainy black and white.

That was new. I’d been expecting a different sound, thought I might even have been prepared for it. Was hoping for it, really. That was the easy part, the only part that didn’t make my teeth grind and my heartbeat turn into a techno beat.

Doing the only thing I could think of, I lurched towards the television, probably looking like some poor man’s impersonation of Frankenstein. I took one hand away from my ear, instantly regretting it when the sound clawed into the canal and ruptured my eardrum. I felt something leaking out and dribbling on my shoulder. The pain was bad, but at least the sound was deadened.

I reached out and shoved the television, rocking it on the little rubberized feet a bit. It was heavier than I expected. I shoved a second time, harder, and it tipped over, landing facedown only a couple of inches from my foot. I heard glass shatter, but the sound kept going. I don’t know what else I’d expected; things were built like tanks back then, and breaking the glass wasn’t liable to trash the speaker.

I did the next thing that came to mind, grabbing the power cord that snaked out of the back of the unit and yanking it as hard as I could. It came loose in a shower of sparks. For a moment I hoped they’d hit that obnoxious carpet, catch fire, and burn the whole mess down. Preferably complete with Mom, Dad, and Sis.

I wasn’t that lucky. Whatever toxic chemicals they used to pour on the carpeting in the way back when, meant the sparks barely singed it. The lightshow ended a moment later with a loud popping noise from somewhere deeper in the house. The living room dimmed a little. I guessed a fuse must have blown or a breaker was tripped.

Either way, it put things back on track. When I took my hand off my other ear, I heard the sound I’d been expecting. Faint, coming from further back, down a hall past the family couches.

Somewhere back there, a baby was crying. I had to find her. Even though I knew what would happen when I did, I still had to try.

This story was originally published at KaineAndrews.com. Intrigued? Stay tuned for Part 5, next Thursday!

About the Author

Kaine Andrews

Kaine Andrews was raised in the wilds of Nevada, molded by NASCAR-loving witches, a Catholic school education and typewriter theft, granting a natural fascination with all things dark and dreary and demented scribblings. He currently resides in Oregon, where the omnipresent drizzle keeps him somewhat sane.

Black Catastrophy

“Layers Part 2” by Kaine Andrews

“Layers Part 2” by Kaine Andrews

Part II

I pulled up the drive, stomach in knots. The back of my throat was coated with acid, making every swallow torture, every breath ragged. The air felt like it was made of heavy, bitter syrup and no matter how many blasts I took from my aspirator, my asthma wouldn’t let go.

I’d dreamed of this moment. Dozens – maybe hundreds – of times, since I was just a kid. I’d done everything I could to change the circumstances. In the dreams, it was always late in the day, at the edge of twilight; I’d left early, as soon as the sun was up, to be there before that. In the dream, I was always in an old red sedan, and to avoid that I’d rented a gray pickup.

Of course, the year-old and recently inspected truck didn’t make it up the trail. It blew a rod and died at the side of the road with no help in sight. By the time I’d gotten ahold of the rental company and had them come fetch me, the day was mostly gone. The car they brought as a replacement – apologizing the whole time, as it was the only one left in their fleet – was a red Chevrolet Cavalier.

I should have quit right then. Should have known better. But there was the sense that I didn’t really have a choice in this. That one way or another, the dreams were going to end today. Maybe it was pointless to try to resist the script that had been playing out in my sleep for the better part of three decades. Better to go with the flow.

Of course, the flow ended with a painful death, but at this point, that seemed unimportant.

Layers, again; peel away the best-laid plans to discover that you’re dancing to someone else’s tune. Peel away the nightmare, intending to expose it to the light and to the so-called real world, discover the nightmare was the truth all along.

Maybe that’s why I kept going. To be done with the onion-peeling, to be done with everything. I was tired. So tired. Not just of the dreams, of insomnia and headaches and nosebleeds and everything that went with them, but with life. One way or other, it would be done. I could put it all aside and be something else… or not have to be bothered by any of it at all.

I got out of the car, listening to the gunshot echoes produced when I slammed the driver’s door shut. The echo bothered me, but it took me a minute to figure out why. There was no response. No other sound. No little birds chirping, no bugs buzzing, no sense that the sound had disturbed any natural order that would otherwise be going about its business at the tail end of a sweltering day in July.

I could feel it. The house – or whatever was waiting for me inside – pulsing like a tumor in the landscape, a diseased heart sending whatever passed for its blood through the surroundings. Poisoning them, twisting them, making it unfit for anything that it didn’t allow to exist.

In that toxic heartbeat, I could hear it calling my name. God help me, I answered.

“I’m here,” I whispered. “I came.”

Without conscious thought, I walked towards the house, running my fingers along the smooth wood of the banister attached to the short steps leading to the porch. Despite the age, the length of time since someone had actually lived here, it was in good shape. No signs of rot, dust, or damage. No graffiti or broken windows, no cigarette butts and used condoms. Whatever aura the old place had, it was enough to keep the kids away.

I laid my hand on the brass doorknob of the stout wooden door, squinting, trying and failing to get a glimpse of what lay beyond through the frosted glass panes at the top of the door. The knob was cold, icy, beneath my hand. I felt that if I pulled my hand back and looked at it, I’d see a rime of ice melting against my palm. I didn’t try the experiment.

For a moment, I found myself hoping it would be locked. I knew it wouldn’t be, but if it was, I could be free. I could shrug and walk away. Despite following the madness this far, I wasn’t going to break a window or kick in the door just to sate my obsessions. That’s what I told myself, anyway.

It was a futile hope. The knob turned easily, without even a squeak, and the door slipped open like a mouth waiting to swallow me.

I couldn’t see what lay beyond; the clash between the darkness inside and the lingering bright outside left my eyes going spastic as they tried to decide which to focus on. Not that it mattered, anyway; I think the darkness was from something other than a lack of lights being on, and even if I’d thought to bring a flashlight it wouldn’t have made a difference.

Sighing, resigned to what was coming, I stepped through the doorway.

This story was originally published at KaineAndrews.com. Intrigued? Stay tuned for Part 3, next Thursday!

About the Author

Kaine Andrews

Kaine Andrews was raised in the wilds of Nevada, molded by NASCAR-loving witches, a Catholic school education and typewriter theft, granting a natural fascination with all things dark and dreary and demented scribblings. He currently resides in Oregon, where the omnipresent drizzle keeps him somewhat sane.

Black Catastrophy