13 Tales To Give You Night Terrors Page 6

  HE'S coming for me.

  I locked the front door-deadbolted-but it's no comfort. How much safety can a deadbolt really guarantee? The lights are on in every room of my fourth floor apartment, matching the firefly sprinkling of every other home and business in the city at night. I'm sitting at the Formica table in the kitchen with my back to the wall, scanning the two doorways. My right hand's wrapped around the knife so hard it's practically fused to my flesh.

  For the first time ever, I'm thankful my Brooklyn apartment is so small. Less space to worry about. I grew up in a two-story farmhouse in Idaho with stairs and a backyard and privacy. That house would have been hell to safeguard but I can manage the apartment.

  He's not going to get the jump on me like he did the others.

  Lights from the street flash into the kitchen, casting long shadows my way. As they recede, I relax my grip on the knife.

  Any minute now.

  A man and woman talk in hushed tones on the other side of the kitchen wall. It's just the neighbor's TV. Before I moved to the city, any sounds I heard from the TV came from my parents' viewing habits-westerns and political talk shows. The widow is different. She loves reality shows and sitcoms. I suddenly envy the amnesiac shut-in. The bag boy delivers her food. She's never watched a friend die. She never waits for death to burst through her doors.

  Or maybe she does. Maybe that's why she never ventures outside.

  I see my life following the shut-in's path. Call in to my professors, tell them I'm sick. They'll fail me eventually. I can take classes online and get a job from home. Endless nights watching the doors. How long until I feel comfortable enough to turn on the TV?

  It started when my phone buzzed on the subway after my late class. I had to brush up against a squirrelly-looking woman to fish it out my pants.

  My buddy Jay was calling to cancel our weekly poker game. I figured he'd contacted me last because he knew the other guys wouldn't give him any resistance, but I wasn't having any of it.

  "Don't be a loser. Why don't you want to chill?" I asked him.

  "I'm not up for it tonight." The voice on the phone sounded hollow. I'd never heard Jay like that before. I'd known him for two years, ever since we sat next to each other in one of my first engineering classes. I was a freshman and used to sticking your hand out and making friends like from back home. The city was a different story and most people treated me like an oddity, but Jay had shook my hand and started blabbing. We were instant friends.

  "Something happen?"

  "I don't know. I guess so."

  "Don't be a chick. Just tell me." He was never the type to get worked up easily. The uncertainty in his voice made my skin crawl.

  "I ran into Declan in the bar the other night."

  "Who?"

  "He used to work with me in the college bookstore. He was just sitting there at the bar, drinking alone. There weren't any decent girls around, so I had a few Post Nap Funks with him."

  "And?"

  "And his cousin died the other day. A severe heart attack. He was only twenty-nine. The weird thing was the cousin's neighbor was shot a few days before in a home invasion or something."

  "That's messed up," I said. What else was there to say? Sorry the random cousin of some acquaintance died. If the city wasn't so massive you would never have even crossed paths.

  I noticed a young preacher holding a sign proclaiming it the end of days. Would the city swallow him up whole like it had me?

  "Declan said his cousin saw the killer leaving. Dude was dressed up like one of those street performers. The costumed ones that kids take pictures with. They're always out there bothering people. Homeless weirdoes."

  Never would have happened in Idaho.

  "Who was he dressed up as? SpongeBob? Spider-Man?" I tried to lighten the mood, but it was impossible.

  "A wolf in a ratty 'I Heart NY' shirt."

  "Weird. But who doesn't heart New York? Still no reason why we aren't getting shitfaced playing poker tonight."

  The train came to a halt and the doors whooshed open. I hurried through the crowd of strangers. As I emerged on the street above, I found myself looking out for any costumed wolves. I never looked over my shoulder before moving here. What is it about the city that changes you so quickly? The smog? The abundance of people stacked upon each other?

  "I left the bar with Declan. We went down to the subway together. It wasn't that crowded, you know, a Tuesday night at eleven. We were waiting for the train, just talking or whatever, and suddenly his mouth drops and he stumbles back. I tried to catch him, but he fell right in front of the train. It made the most sickening sound."

  "Damn." I shuddered at the thought of Jay's friend actually dying in front of him, glad I heard about it as I approached my apartment building and not while I was still underground. "What did you do?"

  "I turned away. People were screaming. The Wolf was standing there, twenty feet away. I swear its big plastic eyes were staring straight at me. He held one finger up to his lips."

  "Shit. What happened?"

  "People were running around and I lost track of him. As soon as the cops heard we came from the bar they didn't seem that interested. Anyway, I've been holed up here the last couple days."

  "That's no good. Look, I'll bring over a six-pack and keep you company for a while. Not like I had any other plans for the night."

  He was quiet for several seconds. I thought we got disconnected and checked my phone. The seconds on the call log ticked up. "Jay?"

  "Yeah, sure. See you in a few."

  I stuffed the phone back in my pants and hurried upstairs. I tossed some beer in a brown bag and left for Jay's place.

  The streets were still alive with hipsters and partiers. A scruffy kid played some song by This Is My Roommate as passers-by tossed spare change in his guitar case. I nodded to a neighbor, a woman whose face I knew but name I didn't. It wasn't a long walk to Jay's apartment. I hoped he had some soda and liquor so I could mix something stronger. Somehow I didn't think three beers apiece would do the trick.

  As I reached Jay's building, I glanced up at his third story window out of habit. The lights were on. As I neared the side of the building, something made a crashing sound high above. I looked up just as Jay sailed through the air, plummeting toward the concrete.

  A woman screamed. Others pointed. Jay hit the ground with a sickening splat and crunch. I backed away and looked toward the window again. Those looming wolf eyes stared at the carnage below.

  Jay must have opened the door for the Wolf, thinking it was me. He can't pull the same trick on me. I'll sit right here until he tries, and then I'll show him. One quick stab to the stomach ought to do it. And then twenty more to be sure.

  I crack open my second beer with my left hand and sip the foamy drink. Nothing will take the knife out of my dominant hand. I picture the freak inside the mask. Homeless maniac? A hipster artist hearing voices? A vet with PTSD?

  There's a knock on the door. I tense up. The light above the kitchen table flickers.

  Who's there?

  Death.

  Death who?

  I leave the safety of the kitchen wall and approach the front door. Through the peephole, I see him clearly waiting on the other side. He's perfectly still. Hands at his side, head tilted just so. The knife is heavy in my hand. I consider throwing open the door and launching myself at him.

  I back away from the door. Maybe he'll go away.

  How'd he even find me?

  It's cold in my apartment but sweat drips down my forehead. I can't take my eyes off the front door. He's unarmed. He can't hurt me. I'm safe.

  I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll blow your house down.

  I fall back to the kitchen table. Shaking, I finish my beer. Do I dare crack open another? The lights are on; he already knows I'm home. Maybe he'll go away.

  I sit again. Nothing happens. A car horn blares outside. There are sirens in the distance. I risk opening another beer by momentarily setting down the
knife. My right hand is sore. I flex it and then crack open the can under the table, muffling it as best as I can.

  The bitter taste doesn't help any. I only take one sip before setting it down on the table and holding the knife again.

  The city sounds blur together. All I can distinctly hear is my own breathing and the muffled TV next door.

  "You'll lose yourself in New York," Dad said.

  "What's there to lose? Any sense that cows are worthwhile conversationalists?" I'd joke back. But he was right. The city does swallow you whole. You come in thinking one thing and the next minute, you're a New Yorker and anything goes.

  The stillness is nearly as bad as chaos.

  Maybe he's gone. Maybe he gave up.

  I leave the table and shuffle toward the front door to peer through the peephole. The Wolf hasn't moved an inch. If they could, I'm sure the edges of his costumed lips would twist upward.

  I step away from the door. The Wolf will never tire. He'll never leave his station.

  I remember my phone. The cops. Help. I silently creep away from the door. Where's my phone?

  The bedroom.

  My feet carry me through the narrow hallway and into my bedroom. I find the phone on my bed and dial 911. I make my way back to the kitchen table as the operator answers.

  "911, what is the nature of your emergency?"

  "Uh, yes, there's someone outside my apartment. I think he's dangerous."

  I glance back at the door. The deadbolt has moved; the door's no longer locked. He must be inside. The phone fumbles through my fingers and clatters on the floor.

  I run toward the door. I have to get out before he leaps out at me. I throw the door wide open.

  The Wolf never moved from the spot.

  Before I can slam the door shut, he barges forward. I step back and ram the knife into his stomach. It slices through the shirt and furry costume.

  He backhands me and I stumble back through my living room. My vision blurs. I shake it away.

  The Wolf approaches. The knife is still stuck in his gut. The costume stinks of piss and stale beer. I launch myself at him and yank out the knife. I pull back and slash horizontally at his neck. I feel the blade cut through fur and something thick, like molasses.

  The Wolf head falls to the floor and rolls several feet.

  My senses feel like they're on fire. My entire body tingles. The Wolf drops to his knees and collapses at my feet.

  Shaking, I bend down and pick up the Wolf's head. It's empty.

  The furry hands grab my ankles and yank my feet out from under me. I fall on top of the costume. The headless thing crawls over me. It's heavier than it should be. It weighs me down. I try to scream, but the hands are over my mouth. It's stronger than I am.

  There's a zipping sound. The costume rolls over, practically crushing me into the floor. But then the furry back envelops me. It wraps around my chest, crushing the air out of my lungs. I feel the legs stretching out across my own like warm glue. The hands reach the Wolf's head and pull it over my own.

  My vision becomes his.

  It's hot here. My sweat drips, collecting in the furry folds around my lips and chin. It's moist and I'm so thirsty.

  I stumble out of the apartment. Through the city.

  Hookers and addicts own the streets until the sun rises on the city. The tourists and professionals reclaim the lost territory.

  There are others like me in the fringes. Batman. Snoopy. Wonder Woman.

  Kids pose with me and parents chuck spare coins my way.

  People point. They jeer. Snicker. Laugh. They shouldn't push me too far; they wouldn't like the consequences. There's been a long line from the first people who pushed me too far. Each told someone about me and each had to be dealt with.

  It's a precious chain.

  Now you know my story and I can't break the chain. That's why I'm coming for you.

  7. STORE MACABRE

  Scott Clark, Scotland