What Do Monsters Fear Page 10

  “The ice cream man was back,” he said. “Came into the stables while I made up a bed for Alisa . . . A real nice one, too, but he frightened me so bad and . . . When I saw him, it felt like someone was running jagged fingers up my spine, can you picture that? My hairs were standing up, all on the back of my neck . . . But I stayed calm and came back to the house, thinking he’s not there, he’s not there . . . But then he followed, staying right behind me with that horrible jaw swinging, and then he laughed! Can you believe that? I jumped a mile into the air, and then he asked if I’d like a treat . . .”

  Walter sighed. “I told him no, I was too old for treats, because I’m an adult now. But he just kept laughing and laughing . . . So I came inside and decided to go to bed. He can’t get me when I sleep. He’s not in my dreams. I’m alone there. But he’s still here, in the house. But, you know what? I didn’t pee myself this time, isn’t that something? You can feel for yourself, my sheets are dry, honest.”

  “That’s okay, Walter,” Peter said. His heart went out to the man. Walter reminded him of a scared child trapped inside an adult body, a real-life Peter Pan who didn’t seem to understand how the world worked. Or maybe he did understand but didn’t care, because he couldn’t change. Either way, it all amounted to the same thing: Here lay a frightened person in need of comfort, and if that didn’t happen, he might be scared to death.

  “What do you mean he’s still here?” Donald asked.

  “I mean,” Walter said, “that he’s still in the house. You guys scared him when he heard you coming. Scuttled out of the room like a rat because he didn’t want to get caught. That’s what I think . . . You didn’t see him?”

  “No,” Peter said, shaking his head. “I don’t think there’s anyone in the house that we don’t know about, Walter, don’t worry.”

  “Okay, then . . .”

  Walter closed his eyes and took a deep breath that rattled inside his chest. He pulled his covers up high, making him appear like a floating head. “Then I guess I can sleep.”

  A crash came from the hallway. Peter’s body stiffened. “What was that?”

  The four of them listened, their eyes wide. The grandfather clock ticked downstairs, heavy breathing filled the room, but nothing else. The silence suspended.

  Henry licked at his lips before he spoke, keeping his voice down. “We should check that out . . . Sounded like it was on the second floor. One of us should stay with Walter.”

  Peter turned to Donald and nodded towards the door, arching his eyebrows in a question: You coming with me?

  Donald nodded before following. Creeping to the door, Peter eased it open and cringed as the hinges squeaked. He tiptoed into the hallway and looked both ways. Shelly Matthews’ door stood ajar.

  “There,” he whispered.

  Making his way to the door, Peter breathed through his mouth to control his airflow, wanting to make as little noise as possible. His heartbeat drummed in his ears, loud enough for the whole house to hear. Then something moved inside of Shelly’s room. A black figure shifting in the dark. Peter squinted and quickened his pace. Behind him, Donald did the same, until the two men were sprinting for the door, no longer worried about being heard.

  Peter smashed the door with his knee, sending it crashing to the wall. He fumbled with the light switch, knocking it down and shocking the room with light. Then he saw it. Only for a second, but he saw it. Donald must have, too, because a string of curse words spewed from his mouth. Peter’s mind reeled. It couldn’t have been real . . . Couldn’t have.

  A dark fog, inky and terrible, shot through the laundry shoot near the window, disappearing as if a vacuum had been switched on. But something in Peter’s mind told him otherwise—the fog hadn’t been sucked through. It had slithered all by itself. It had run.

  “Did you fuckin’ see that?”

  Peter placed a hand on his chest, trying to ease his heart. “Yeah. I did.”

  “What the fuck was that thing? It was alive!”

  Henry shouted from the hallway. “What’s going on?”

  “We saw something!” Peter answered. Donald tapped his shoulder. “Come on, man. I’ve got the fuckin’ creeps.”

  They made their way back to Henry, Peter’s legs moving like water damaged planks. His nerves sung, his hair prickling and standing on end; having his back to the room made him feel all too exposed.

  Henry watching them with an anxious look. “What was it? What happened?”

  Peter couldn’t believing the words coming from his own mouth, his brain wouldn’t allow it. “The fog,” he said. “Henry, you were right. It went through the laundry shoot.”

  “I told you,” Henry said. “I knew it. Donald, I told Peter all about it. That damned fog wasn’t natural, I could feel it. You know that feeling when you think somebody’s watching you? That’s what it felt like when I saw it from the porch . . . But I chalked it up to paranoia from lack of nicotine and alcohol. I should have trusted my gut. You believe in the paranormal, Donny?”

  “After what I just saw, man, space aliens, werewolves, whatever, I’ll listen. That thing’s out to get us.”

  Henry turned to Peter. “Peter? What did you make of it?”

  Peter stayed silent as he toyed with a concept in his mind. He decided to tell them. “I think Walter did see the ice cream man . . . But I think that none of us would see an ice cream man . . . I think you did see your son, Henry, but I think Donald and I wouldn’t see your son . . . I think we’re seeing what we don’t want to see . . . What we fear . . . Look, I know it sounds crazy, and maybe it is, but—”

  “Fisher,” Henry said, his eyes bright. “That sonofabitch . . .”

  “What? What is it?”

  “Our counselling sessions . . . He was milking us for information, finding out what frightens us the most. Think about it, Walter told him all about the ice cream man before he got attacked. I told him all about my son, just before—”

  Peter interrupted. “You told him about that?”

  “Yes . . . After our argument, I thought, maybe I am just paranoid. I gave in. I told him all about why I’m here when we had our one-to-one. And you, did you tell him about your grandmother?”

  “He already knew. Dawson did a background check on all of us.”

  “What’s the bet Jamie was terrified of fucking it all up, huh?” Donald ask. “What’s the bet that dark shit got inside his head, made him think bad thoughts?”

  “If we’re going with our theory, then I think it’s highly likely . . .” Peter looked to them both. “Jamie wanted to get out of here as soon as possible. Deep down, he must have been afraid of losing himself to the meds. That thing must have known that. Got inside his mind, infected him, turned him against himself, made him see no way out . . . Either that or I’m just tweaking the fuck out . . .”

  “I don’t think so,” Henry said. “I don’t want to believe it, but it’s adding up.”

  Peter blew a deep breath. “Come downstairs, there’s something I want to check out.”

  “What is it?”

  “A notebook on the table in the library. There’s writing in it, books scattered all over the place. We could find some answers.”

  “Hey,” Donald said. “What about Walt? Can’t leave the poor fuck up here.”

  Peter rubbed his forehead. “You’re right . . . Let’s get him out of bed, put him downstairs. We can keep an eye on him in the living room.”

  “Good idea.”

  They went back inside Walter’s room, turning on the light as they entered. They froze.

  Walter’s condition had deteriorated at a staggering pace. Beneath the bedsheets moved what looked like a decomposing corpse, Walter’s skin glazed in sweat and the color of spoiled milk. His eyes darted around the room, unable to stay put.

  He’s panicking, Peter thought.

  “Walter!” Peter ran to the bedside. “Walter, speak to me. You hear me?”

  The large man’s chest rattled as it rose, his breath smelling s
weet and sick. He grabbed Peter’s arm.

  “What’s happening? Feels like my brain is getting sick inside my head! I don’t feel right!”

  “It’s all right, Walter, we’re going to get you downstairs and get you better, okay? Hold onto me.” He turned his head. “Guys, help.”

  Henry and Donald raced to his side, Donald throwing Walter’s bedsheets to the floor in a heap. Walter’s white pajama pants stuck to his legs with moisture, his hairy stomach dripping and shining. He was right about one thing, though—he hadn’t wet the bed.

  “Come on, big guy,” Donald said, then the three pulled Walter to his feet. He staggered, almost falling forward if Donald hadn’t been quick enough. He caught Walter around the waist and wrenched him back, throwing an arm around his neck and looking to Peter to do the same. He did. They held the sick man between them as Henry jogged to the door and held it open.

  Walter weighed a ton. His legs dragged the floor, twitching as they sought purchase. He moaned, his head rocking about on the stalk of his neck. Heat radiated from his glistening flesh and Peter turned his head away, avoiding the warmth.

  “There we go,” Peter said, feeling the need to talk. “You stay focused now, Walter. Move your feet to help us out, okay? We’re going to get you downstairs.”

  Walter moaned, then vomited. The liquid splashed the hardwood before jumping onto Peter’s jeans and boots. The smell was enough to make Peter hold his breath. Donald seemed to struggle, too.

  Peter groaned. “Come on . . . Into the hallway . . . That’s it, keep moving.”

  They angled themselves for the staircase, lurching in an awkward shuffle. Then Walter fell slack, the deadweight on Peter’s shoulder unbearable. His knees shook and he grunted, looking to Donald.

  “Down, down, down,” Donald spat, lowering Walter as he spoke. The sick man’s legs folded like an accordion on the ground. A horrifying thought struck Peter so quick that his own legs nearly did the same.

  “Is he?”

  “Yeah, he is. Now put ’em down.”

  Peter stepped away and pressed his back to the wall, wiping the sweat from his brow. “He’s dead?”

  He knew the answer, of course, but the question still fell from his mouth.

  “Dead as a stump.”

  Donald rolled his sleeves and looked to the other two. He cocked an eyebrow. “Rigor mortis gonna set in pretty fast. We can do one of two things here, and I need you both to stay calm and not freak until we get this done, all right? You can lose your shit pretty easy in this kind of situation, but if you stay focused, we can get the job finished. We’ll freak afterwards, okay? There’ll be time for that. Just don’t do it now.”

  Peter and Henry both nodded, silent.

  “All right then. First choice.” Donald raised a finger. “We put him back in his room, hope someone shows up and saves the day. But I don’t think that’s fuckin’ likely. That’s option number one. Second choice,” He raised another finger. “We move him outside, because I don’t think I need to tell you twice, if he’s up here and we’re stuck in this house on account of the snow, he’s gonna stink up the joint. And that’s a smell you never forget, swear on my mother’s good name. Ain’t gonna wanna smell that shit for all the money in the world.”

  “We get him out,” Henry said, his voice shaking. “Peter?”

  “Outside. Right.”

  Donald nodded. “Good choice. In that case, kid, grab the poor fuck’s legs. I’ll get the top half. Henry? Make sure the path’s clear and there ain’t nothin’ we can fall over, all right?”

  “Sure.” Henry went down the staircase ahead of them.

  “All right, let’s do this.”

  They hoisted the dead man, Donald’s muscles bulging.

  Jesus, Peter thought. How much can Walt weigh?

  Donald’s face strained, turning red. “Heavy sumbitch, ain’t he?” He wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Bet you didn’t know your bowels evacuate when you kicked the bucket, eh?”

  Walter may not have wet the bed, but he had destroyed his pajama pants with something much worse. Peter felt awful, but he’d have time to deal with his emotions later. Right now, he needed to get the body down the stairs.

  They took the steps at a calculated pace, Peter concentrating on the handrail as a point of focus to distract him from the immense weight in his arms. Walter’s stomach jiggled with each movement, his mouth hanging open.

  Catching Peter’s expression, Donald sighed. “There’s no fuckin’ dignity in this, I know, kid. Just keep movin’.”

  As they made their way into the open cold, their breath streamed away in visible clouds. Darkness surrounded them as the snow crunched beneath their feet. Peter’s hands were numb.

  “Where to?” Peter asked. He needed to drop Walter soon or his arms would give out.

  “Can’t go too far, might attract animals. I know he’s dead, but it’s the least we can do for the poor fuck. We’ll bury him in some snow for now . . . Put him on ice, y’know?”

  Peter ignored the comment.

  “Kid, it’s a joke. Look, we’ll dig a proper grave when there’s some light. Good?”

  Peter nodded. “Yeah. All good.”

  They were a few feet from the house when Peter’s stomach fluttered. He looked to Donald. “Where’s Andrew?”

  CHAPTER TEN

  “USE THE BUS AS A marker,” Peter said, his heart racing. “Count ten paces and cover him. We need to find Andrew.”

  Donald nodded and counted his steps. “Here. This’ll do.”

  They worked fast, shoveling snow with their bare hands until Walter disappeared beneath the white mound. With the job done, Peter’s hands shook, his skin red and numb.

  “Come on,” Henry said, leading the way to the farmhouse. He called out. “Andrew!”

  They climbed the porch and entered the hallway, scanning the building. “Let’s check the kitchen,” Peter said, shaking his hands. They tingled and stung. “We should start downstairs.”

  A mumble drifted from the library. A man’s voice, low and wavering.

  “Sounds like crying?” Donald said. “Come on.”

  The hallway light cut a sliver through the dark room, illuminating open books on the hardwood. Andrew stood in the dull light, the phone pressed to his ear. “—But you can’t,” he said. The bearded man looked to them, his cheeks shining with tears. “She can’t, right?”

  Peter kept his voice steady. “Andrew, drop the phone. Whoever you think you’re talking to, you’re not. I promise.”

  “No, it’s her. It’s my wife. She’s taking my son away. She’s met somebody. Somebody better than me.”

  “Andrew, drop the phone,” Peter insisted. “Do it.”

  Looking like a zombie, the large man lowered the receiver back to the cradle, shaking his head. “Said she met him at her art class. Had more in common . . . Said he had more time for her.” Andrew wiped his nose on his shirtsleeve. “She said he knew about art and that all I cared about was football and such . . . Didn’t even say what such was. Thinks I don’t pay enough attention to her.” His lip quivered. “But I love her art, I do, I just don’t know any names or anything . . .” Andrew cradled his face in one large palm.

  Peter stepped forward. “It wasn’t her, Andrew. I promise. There’s something inside the house, feeding off our fears. Look, it’s getting into our heads, that’s all. Ruining us from the inside out. I promise you, that was not your wife . . .” Peter licked at his lips. “That man, Walter, just died.”

  Andrew removed his hand from his face, his eyes swollen. “What?”

  “He’s dead. We buried him outside.”

  “What’s happened?”

  “We don’t know, but we’re trying to figure it out. Will you help us?”

  “What are you talking about? What use am I?”

  “Four heads better than three,” Donald said. “We’re as lost as you are, man, but we’ve got some clues. Help us.”

  Peter nodded. “I got a phone call,
too, from my grandmother. But it wasn’t her, Andrew. Just like that wasn’t your wife.”

  “I’ve imagined her saying those things to me so many times” Andrew said. “I’ve tried to learn the names of artists but they wouldn’t stay in my head . . . I’ve just been waiting for this day. She seemed so happy every time she came home from her classes. I know I could never make her smile like that and it hurt to know she was getting her happiness elsewhere. I just wanted to try and make her smile like that class did. But I never could. Not the way she smiled coming home. I know I work too much, but I don’t know what else to do, there’s so many bills to pay, and with Ivan only six months old . . .”

  “It’s all right,” Peter said. “We’ll figure this out.”

  “Hey . . .” Donald squinted down at one of the open books. “Think Fisher threw them all over like this? Lookin’ for somethin’? You know, like, flung them around when he couldn’t find what he needed?”

  Peter plucked one from the floor at random and skimmed the pages. His skin broke out in gooseflesh at the touch, each page feeling dusty and thick.

  Like it’s made of skin, Peter mused. This is disgusting . . .

  “What’s it say?” Henry asked.

  “I don’t know. Looks like Latin to me . . . But I never made it past basic French in school. No chance of understanding it.”

  He turned another yellowed page, revealing an illustration. “What’s this?”

  Peter angled the book beneath the sliver of hall light to show the others.

  “Looks like a frog-man,” Donald said. “Some sort of daemon or some shit.”

  Peter leaned closer to the page to study the sketch. The creature hunched, knees bent, as if its legs struggled to carry the weight of its bulging upper half. Its slim arms reached to its kneecaps, the webbed fingers capped with ragged nails. Beady, fish-like eyes sat to either side of its bulbous head, and a fin ran from the tip of its crown down its back. Its mouth hung open to reveal rows of jagged teeth.