What Do Monsters Fear Read online

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  WHAT DO MONSTERS FEAR?

  Matt Hayward

  Post Mortem Press

  For Anna Muhlbach

  PROLOGUE

  June 22nd, 1978

  HEATHER STEPPED INTO HARRIS DAWSON’S private practice and whistled, her neck craned to get a better view of the overhead chandelier. “I’ve never seen one of those in real life,” she said. “Only in the movies. It’s gorgeous. The couch, real leather?”

  Harris Dawson closed the office door and stood by the fireplace. He smiled. “I appreciate your kind words, Heather, but if it’s all right with you, I’d like to talk about your late husband.”

  Heather’s face fell. She eased herself onto the couch and stared at the rug; a Russian antique Harris had acquired the previous week. “Yes. We can talk about him. You’re just so young, I didn’t expect such a nice place, that’s all.”

  “Quite all right.” Harris picked a notebook from the table and skimmed the first page. “With the office in town being fumigated, I didn’t want to miss an opportunity to talk to you. You sure you don’t mind being here?”

  “Where else would I have to go?”

  Harris gave a tight smile. “Living on the streets must be trying. You say it’s been one week?”

  “Eight days now.” She sighed. “After Eddie passed, I just . . . lost myself. You have no idea how much it means to me that you’d offer me your services for free. I wish I could repay you, Harris. With everywhere I could’ve been, winding up sleeping in the alleyway of a shrink wasn’t in the cards. I mean, what were the chances?”

  “Slim,” Harris said. If Heather noticed that his notebook contained doodles of smiley faces instead of text, she gave no indication. “This is my pleasure to have you here. I don’t do this for the money. I do this to help people. Your family, you told me they’re . . .”

  “Out of the picture, yes. Eddie’s family took me in as one of their own but I lost contact and haven’t been brave enough to call. Maybe, with your help, I will?”

  “Perhaps.” Harris finished scribbling an elongated penis onto a matchstick man and placed the notebook aside. “I’d like to talk about what happened to Eddie. What comes to mind?”

  At the sound of her husband’s name, Heather winced. She tucked a lock of unwashed hair behind her ear. “Just a heart attack. No one to blame. No life insurance. Just . . . That’s it. Only forty-three, can you believe it? The garage didn’t offer anything besides condolences.”

  “And you fear life without him?”

  “Every minute of it.”

  “And, Heather, what if I told you that you could see him again?”

  Harris fought to keep the laughter down as the woman’s eyes widened. Her mouth fell open and she clutched the couch, her knuckles white. “That’s not funny, Doctor Dawson, not funny at all!”

  “No, I quite agree. But only because it’s not a joke.”

  Heather hoisted herself from the couch, her nostrils flaring. “I knew it. I knew you were too good to be true. Oh poor homeless Heather, who would actually want to help you, right? Well, I’ll show you, Dawson. I don’t need you, or anybody.”

  The door handle jittered. Harris placed his hands behind his back and watched as his stomach cartwheeled and his heart jackhammered.

  “Who is that?” Heather asked, moving behind the couch as if for protection. “What’s going on here?”

  “I told you it wasn’t a joke, dear. I have somebody I’d like you to meet.”

  The door creaked open. A rancid, shriveled hand quivered as it slipped around the polished mahogany frame. Then Eddie entered the room.

  Heather screamed, her knees locking together. Her eyes bulged from their sockets and her hands squeezed into tight fists. Eddie plodded forward, his alabaster skin catching the glare of the overhead chandelier. Dirt and decay wafted from him in thick, nauseous waves. Harris pinched his nose, chuckling.

  “That’s not my husband!” Heather roared, jerking left and right like a cornered animal. “That’s not my husband!”

  Then Eddie clutched her throat.

  As Heather gagged and smacked at the deadman’s hands, Harris returned to doodling, trying his best to ignore the violent struggle. He had almost finished an elephant wearing roller skates when Heather finally gave her last breath and fell still. Sighing, Harris snapped his notebook closed and crossed the room.

  He grimaced at the deep red finger marks on the woman’s neck. “Strangulation? Are you sure that was the smartest move? Impeccable conditions are required, my Lord, and finding another is out of the question, I—”

  The deadman growled, his eyes wide. Dawson’s stomach lurched.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I won’t question you again.”

  The deadman eased himself down beside his wife’s corpse, lying like lovers sleeping the long sleep. His eyes closed.

  Dawson’s hair prickled as a gust of air blew by, carrying with it the brown stench of rotting flesh and forcing the taste of copper to his tongue. His ears popped, the pressure of the room changing. He kept his eyes on the dead woman, knowing that at any moment, she would move. Once that happened, Harris would make the phone call to his superiors and enjoy the champagne he’d put on ice earlier that day. One last night of relaxation before Hell came to Earth.

  Heather’s body jittered, her legs banging the hardwood. Her eyes trembled as if full of scurrying ants. The scene reminded Harris of a victim in the throes of a vicious epileptic fit.

  Yes, Dawson thought, that’s it . . . Easy does it, Phobos . . . Easy does it . . .

  Then her stomach began to bulge. Harris gripped the couch in a panic. “No! No! Easy! I can’t do this again, I can’t find you another!”

  But the dead lady’s stomach continued swelling. With a crack, a bone jutted from her forearm, sending a spray of blood across the Russian rug. Her face puffed out, pushing her eyes to either side of her head like some kind of grotesque kid’s toy.

  Then her stomach exploded.

  Harris flinched as warm, wet slabs slapped him. He recoiled in disgust, trying to wipe his face clean but only managing to smear the goop. He slipped on something that felt like a slug and clutched the wall for support, catching himself just before tumbling. Panting, he eyed the room.

  Crimson splats stained the walls. His prized collection of vintage hardbacks dripped in gore, suffering the worst of the blast. A metallic smell mingled with the rotten now, making him gag and cough. Overhead, the chandelier swung, throwing dancing shadows this way and that.

  The dead woman’s carcass sat open on the floor, disfigured beyond all recognition, and anger boiled inside Harris Dawson.

  “I needed results!” he shouted, slamming a polished shoe down into a puddle of something nasty. “What am I supposed to tell them now? They’ll have me killed for wasting their time!”

  Easy, he warned himself, knowing Phobos still lurked somewhere in the room. He felt the presence. Piss him off and he’ll take you instead . . .

  Harris rubbed his forehead. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll make the call and request more time. With any hope, they’ll give me another chance but
who knows . . . Fuck . . . Now I’ve got to take care of this mess. You need patience, my Lord. Patience. It might be a while before I can get something new together, but I’ll do it . . . Next time will be different.” Harris withdrew a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and dabbed his face. “I’ll find a way,” he said. “I always do.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  January 28th, 2017

  PETER DROPPED THE RAZOR BLADE into the bathroom sink. His hands shook. In the fogged-up mirror, he caught sight of his reflection.

  “How’d you let it get so bad, Pete?”

  He wiped his eyes on his shirtsleeve and took a deep breath, easing his spasming chest. He couldn’t stop crying. Earlier, this decision had been a sterile, emotionless one, as simple as deciding on what to eat for supper. A matter-of-fact choice. Peter was going to kill himself. But now, he felt different.

  “Stop looking at the damn blade, man.”

  He’d woken with the idea that morning, and after showering, eating breakfast, and getting dressed, he’d taken a walk to the drugstore, where he’d purchased a pack of disposable razors and a newspaper. The store clerk told him to have a good day, a smile on his face. Peter said that he would.

  Now, that same newspaper sat propped behind the taps, leaning against the mirror. He’d left it there to show the date, just in case some days passed before anyone found the body. Nobody called his apartment, not anymore. Not since he’d become a such a burden.

  Peter closed his eyes, the sight of the razor blade making him nauseous.

  The whole experience had been like watching some actor in a depressing movie, his eyes the screen. Smashing the cheap plastic of the razor hadn’t fazed him, but putting the cold steel to his flesh had, causing realization to break through like a radio station from white noise. That’d stopped him. That, and what he’d seen in the mirror besides himself.

  “You can’t leave Bethany to deal with this alone. Get a grip.” His voice sounded thick and watery as it bounced off the dirty, tiled walls. Pushing himself from the sink, Peter cried out and crammed his palms into his eyes. “I’ll give it one more shot...”

  Drying his nose on his sleeve, he snatched the paper from the sink and stepped into the apartment’s living room. Not his living room, as his grandmother liked to call it: the apartment’s living room. He’d never admit this small, single-bedroomed flat was all he had now that his music days were over.

  Falling onto the couch, Peter ran a hand through his greasy hair and sighed as moisture seeped into the butt of his jeans from a spilled beer. In his hands, the reason he’d stopped himself, besides Bethany, glared back. An advertisement in the back of the paper. One for a clinic.

  DAWSON REHABABILITAION

  DRUG-FREE RESIDENTIAL REHAB

  DON’T BE AFRAID TO REACH OUT

  Admitting you need help is difficult, but taking that first step starts here.

  At Dawson Rehabilitation, we boast a team of non-judgmental professionals in a clean and confidential environment to help you on your road to recovery.

  Join our two-week detox course

  DON’T BE AFRAID TO CALL

  REMEMBER: WE ARE HERE TO HELP

  The advert, in its baby-blue box, gave a free-of-charge phone number. Reading it over and over, Peter sniffled. He’d never seen a rehabilitation center advertise before. Did they usually do that? He didn’t think so.

  Say it, Peter. Admit it. You’re a goddamn alcoholic.

  Peter spoke to the empty room. “I . . . I need help.”

  There. Doesn’t that feel better? Your friends got married, soared in their careers, and distanced themselves because they could actually control their habits. A couple of beers on the weekend, maybe a bump of charlie in the bathroom, no big deal, right? Not to them. But to you? Jesus H. Christ . . . And they knew you were on a slippery path, too, you know. They were just too kind to say it to you. And isn’t that the worst part of all this? That they think of you like the old family pet they once knew and loved, now waiting to take its last, shaking breath? And when it happens they’ll secretly be relieved. Because the Peter they knew showed so much promise in his youth. So much determination. And somehow . . . Somewhere along the way it just . . . Slipped.

  You’re a loser.

  “It’s not true . . .”

  Nobody wants to be around you because it’s sad. It’s pathetic. You work in a coffee shop and dream of being a professional musician again. And maybe, just maybe, you had a chance once, but you just couldn’t ever put in the hours and work hard. You always half-assed. Always.

  There. Doesn’t that feel better to admit? Sure, when you were eighteen you got signed to a record label. And yes, they gave you money, and wasn’t that nice? Your friends were proud, your peers were jealous. You toured the country on something you built from scratch when everyone else said that you couldn’t. Your grandmother was so proud, Peter. Beth was proud.

  But Pete, the band broke up three years ago, remember? And those royalty checks are getting smaller and smaller and smaller . . . And what have you done since but pity yourself? Not a goddamn thing, that’s what. Oh, except leave Bethany up shit-creek without a paddle, of course. So here’s the ultimatum, kid: Get help or leave a mess. But make a fucking choice, all right?

  Swiping his cell phone from the couch, Peter composed himself. He flicked through his contacts until he found the one that he wanted.

  The phone rang. Once. Twice.

  “Hello? Grandma?”

  “Peter, hello. What’s the matter?”

  Peter laughed despite the situation. The old woman could read his goddamn mind.

  “Is everything all right?”

  Peter’s smile faded. “Um, no, actually.”

  If you must know, I was just getting ready to off myself!

  Stop it. Get yourself together, man.

  “Petey? What’s the matter?”

  With a deep breath, Peter forced the truth out like vomit. “I’m in trouble, Grandma. I need a little help . . .” Then tears started again, hot and fast. “I need to talk. Do you mind if I come by?”

  “Of course not, Peter.” The old woman sounded close to crying herself. “Come over, please. Come, come.”

  “Okay.”

  Peter ended the call and blinked to clear his eyes. His nerves were shot. Pushing himself from the couch, he worked his hands in and out of fists, his palms slick with sweat.

  “Time to face the music,” he said. “. . . If I can.”

  The apartment’s stale odor turned his stomach. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Dishes jutted from the sink, undone and filthy, and the sight only made him feel worse.

  “When I get back, this place is getting cleaned up and Beth’ll like it. So will the . . .”

  Don’t think about that right now, Pete. One step at a time. Get a move on.

  The wind spat thick droplets of rain at the window as Peter crossed to it and peered outside. Through the grimy glass, he watched fat, dark clouds cast the day in constant gloom. Shaking his head, he went to the couch and scooped his raincoat, an old synthetic one with a hood. Slipping into the coat, his stomach fluttered with adrenaline.

  “Oh, please don’t . . . Not now . . .”

  He darted for the sink, making it just in time. A stream of warmth shot up his throat, splashing the dishes and leaving him gasping for breath. He clutched the counter, forcing himself to relax. “That’s definitely breakfast, at least.”

  His stomach gave another shudder at the idea of telling his grandmother everything but he quickly steadied himself, his muscles loosening. He needed to tell her. Not only for himself, but for Bethany, too—if he ever wanted to make a life with her. His grandmother needed to know . . .

  “Because she has money,” Peter said, turning the tap to rinse out the sink. “And treatment ain’t cheap. This is real bottom-feeder shit.”

  As the water ran down the drain, taking chunks of half-digested cereal off the plates and bowls, Peter leaned in and took a sip. He gargled bef
ore spitting, the burning sensation in the back of his throat soothed. With the plates sick-free, he shut off the tap before swiping his keys from the tabletop, his mind reeling.

  You’re really going to ask poor ol’ Grandma for money?

  “She’d want me to, if she knew . . .”

  And will you have enough self-control to stop yourself from going and buying a truckload of booze to comatose yourself for a year with that cash? Really?

  Peter stood at the door, the keys dangling from his hand. The razor blade called from the sink again.

  “She’d want me to ask for help . . . And I do need it. I really do. She’d want to be there for me.”

  A harsh, no-bullshit voice spoke up: Exactly. She’s always there for you. That’s why you never took a chance and worked hard after music, because she’s your safety net. She’d always come running whenever you called, and you knew she would. Jesus Christ, look . . . Just kill yourself, all right? This is sad, sad stuff, man.

  The idea hit like a punch to the gut and Peter’s legs trembled.

  “No . . . No, I can do this. I’m not afraid to ask for help.”

  The tough, no-bullshit voice didn’t reply.

  Peter dabbed at his face to clear it before opening the door. In the hallway, cold, damp air prickled his skin. He closed the door and shivered. The steps leading to the first floor were wet from other’s boots and shoes and he held the railing tight. The wall to his left boasted a faded green paint, dirty from years of built-up crud. Jesus, he thought. No wonder I was going to kill myself. Anyone forced to live here would.

  Laughter tickled at his gut, and it felt good, even if it was the nervous kind. But mixed with the fading adrenaline in his system, it left him drained.

  Grandma would help him. Grandma would understand. She always did.

  Peter pressed the button to release the magnetic catch on the front door before pulling his hood up and stepping outside. Harsh winds tried to rip the hood from his head but held the tip and jogged to the car, rain bouncing off of his coat. With the keys shaking in his hand, Peter unlocked the door and jumped inside, his breath streaming away in smoke-like pillars. He started the engine and waited for it to warm, thinking of what he’d say when he reached his grandmother’s. A half-hour drive to the farmhouse gave enough time to phrase it. Only a half hour, and then things would be better. This time he meant it, too.