What Do Monsters Fear Read online

  “It’s coming!” he said. “Get back!”

  The spider raised to its hind legs, coming to the height of the doorframe and exposing a black, waxy underbelly. Its legs twitched and curled, coarse hair glistening, as shining mandibles clicked. Then it crashed down.

  Peter dived to the side as the door ripped free of its hinges and skidded across the hardwood. The large spider slapped down, its fleshy hind elevated and its head lowered. Its deep, dark eyes closed at different rates.

  Peter sprawled over the couch, squatting to hide. The spider hissed before spitting a wad of silky web in his direction. The web smacked the wall before dribbling down like mucus. Peter shifted to avoid it landing on him.

  He heard the creature scuttled.

  “Help me!”

  Donald backed towards the window, his wide eyes fixed upon the monstrosity. It stalked towards him, cornering him. The large man’s mouth moved, but no words came, only a series of shaking whines. Peter’s chest lurched as a wet spot blossomed on Donald’s pants. The man’s bladder had let go.

  “Get away from him!”

  Peter shot for the beast, shouting at the top of his voice. He clasped his hands and brought them over his head, swinging down as hard as he could on the monster’s hind. The hit connected with a dull thump, the creature’s greasy hair wetting his fists. Peter grabbed the hair and pulled away a fistful. The monster hissed before spinning to face him, knocking a wall table to the floor. Peter froze, coming face to face with the giant spider.

  Four large, globe-like eyes reflected the room. Peter saw his own face in them, bug-eyed and multiplied. The creature took a step forward, the waxy tips of its mandibles clicking.

  It’s going to bite me . . .

  Then Peter saw something else in the creature’s four eyes. Behind four terrified Peters, came four Henry Randolphs, carrying four table legs.

  “Henry, stay back!”

  The spider hissed, raising its hind. Peter threw himself to the wall just as another spray of web jetted forth.

  Henry moved quick. The old man ducked, avoiding the web by inches. He picked up speed and held the table leg like a baseball bat, then he yelled and swung. The leg cut the air with a whoosh, connecting with the creature’s far right eye. A sickening splatter followed. The monster screeched, raising its front legs in defense, trying to take the old man down. But once again, Henry moved fast. He jabbed at the damaged eye, the table leg bursting through and stuck in place like Arthur’s sword from the stone.

  Henry fell back, looking both surprised and amazed at his actions.

  The creatures eye sizzled and spat. Tendrils of smoke drifted from the wound, then the spider scrambled for the door, shooting past Peter with frightening speed. It screeched as it lost balance and cracked its head on the doorframe before scuttling into the hallway, its legs tapping the hardwood like amplified raindrops. Then the tapping stopped, cutting off in mid stride.

  “It’s gone?” Henry asked.

  “Sounds like it just . . . Disappeared . . . Donald!”

  Peter jogged to the man as he crumpled, his legs giving out. Donald thumped the floor hard enough to make Peter wince, his expression blank and his skin caked in sweat.

  “Damn spider, man,” he spoke, his voice a monotone. “Sonofabitch knew how to get me. Knew it would scare the shit outta me. And it did, kid.”

  “We got rid of him,” Henry said. He kneeled beside Donald. “It’s gone. We’re all right now.”

  “No man, we ain’t. That bastard’s gonna pick us off one by one, don’t think it won’t. That was just the fuckin’ beginnin’. Wanted to scare me? Fuckin’ right it did. And I shit myself.” Over Henry’s shoulder, he gave Peter a cold stare. “Not kiddin’, kid. Smell that? I shit my pants. You think that’s funny, you try facing down somethin’ straight outta your nightmares and see how you do.”

  “I never said it was funny, Donald.”

  And nor did Peter find it funny. He knew all too well how it felt to shit your pants and not be aware of it. Only in his case, it had been on account of a bad night of boozing. At least Donald’s experience had some kind of dignity to it. Peter had no excuse.

  A clatter rang out from the kitchen.

  “What the fuck is happening now?” Donald asked.

  Peter frowned. “Sounded like a pot falling.”

  Then came a groan, echoing through the hall.

  “Someone’s out there,” Peter said. He stood and made for the door. “Sounds hurt.”

  “Peter,” Henry called. “Wait, don’t go out alone.”

  Peter eased towards the hallway, squinting through the gap where the door’d once stood.

  “. . . What the . . .”

  He saw no sign of the injured spider. The cobwebs had disappeared. Everything looked just as it had before the attack. But something moved in the darkness.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “Move aside, Henry, coming through.”

  “Paul?” Henry sidestepped from the doorway as Peter carried Paul into the room. A gash lined the man’s forehead, dribbling down his face. Blood pooled in his swollen left eye socket and his puffed lips were cracked and dry. Dark brown stains caked his white uniform. As Peter jogged for the couch, Paul moaned with each step.

  “Clear the way, come on, give me a hand.”

  Henry swiped the books from the couch and stepped aside as Peter dropped the man to the cushions. Paul squeezed his eyes shut, breathing heavily through his nose. Peter guessed that the rest of the man’s body to be in as bad a condition as his face.

  “What happened?” Henry asked.

  Peter rubbed at his forehead. “He was in the hallway like this, stumbling around the place. Collapsed on me. Paul? Paul, can you hear me?”

  As Paul opened his mouth, Peter saw gaps where teeth should be “Fisher . . .” The orderly’s words slurred, his voice thick. He took a clogged breath and winced. “Lost his mind . . . Tried to kill me . . . “

  Peter’s nostrils flared. He wanted to find Fisher, right now. “Where is he, Paul?”

  Paul’s eyes widened, as if waking from a bad dream. He fixed Peter a frightened stare. “I had no idea what he was up to, man. Honest. Swear to God, I just came here to work . . .” Tears spilled down his face. “You gotta believe me.”

  Peter looked to the other two. Henry looked lost for words, but Donald shuffled from the window, crossing the room with an awkward gait due to the mess in his pants. He peered down on Paul, his face flat.

  “He’s lyin’. Bastard knows exactly what’s what. He’s a fuckin’ decoy, tryin’ to weed us out. Jerry probably paid ’em extra to mess him up some. Ain’t that right, Pauly? How much you get to look like you went a round with the champ?”

  “Donny, relax.”

  Donald’s nostrils flared at the remark and Peter drew back. He knew Donald wasn’t thinking straight after the attack, but still, taking a punch off the man wasn’t something Peter wanted to experience. To allow Donald near Paul right now wouldn’t do anyone any favors, either. Peter eased between the two men, moving as subtle as possible.

  “Paul,” Peter said. “Tell us what happened.”

  “Crowbar . . . He’s got a crowbar down there. In the basement. The smell . . . it’s unbearable.” He shook his head back and forth. “He locked me in with him. Started chanting in some weird language . . . I swear, that poor lady’s body, it started moving.”

  “Shelly Matthews?” Peter asked, stunned. “You saw what happened to Shelly?”

  “Her body moved, man . . . That kind of thing isn’t supposed to happen.”

  Peter pressed on. “Did you take Jamie’s body down there, too?”

  “Yes,” Paul said. It came out as yash from his swollen lips. “Fisher said he had a freezer. We’d leave the body there until an ambulance got up to retrieve it. I believed him . . . But when I started down the steps, he pushed me. I stumbled, landed on the floor. It’s just dirt down there. A cellar. You wouldn’t believe it if I told you . . .”
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  “Told us what, Paul?”

  “The basement, it’s hidden like something out of a movie. Disguised as a cupboard in the kitchen.”

  “This is ridiculous,” Donald said. “The fuck kind of psychos are these people?”

  Henry shook his head. “That’s why we found no tracks in the snow. He never left the house.”

  “That poor lady’s body was just muck, man,” Paul said, his chest hitching. “Like a puddle of rancid meat, nothin’ else. Jerry brought that kid down and told me to stay quiet. I couldn’t breathe, that fall knocked me senseless. He put the boy on a table and did some sort of ritual. I swear, the kid’s . . . The kid’s corpse started to spasm. His bones started splitting, his skin all stretchy. Fisher laughed and laughed and I screamed like I’ve never screamed before.”

  “Does he have any other weapon down there besides the crowbar?” Peter asked.

  “That’s all I saw. He threatened to use it on me if I didn’t shut it. That boy’s body, man, all stretched out of shape and stuff . . .”

  Donald snorted. “Phobos didn’t fit into his new suit, eh? What’s that Jerry said in his journal? Overeager.”

  “And how’d you get out?” Henry asked.

  Paul croaked, tears spilling down his cheeks. “I just had to get away from that freak show . . . Made a run for it, but Jerry swung that crowbar out of nowhere. Managed to dodge the worse of it but he clipped me on the forehead. Then he caught hold of me and just started wailing me with the thing. I blocked my face but he banged up my ribs and arms real bad. I thought I was done for, but, praise Jesus, I caught it . . . Ripped it free and smacked him back in the face. Got him good, too. Think I banged out a couple of teeth, at least. Pried open the door of the cellar with the bar and managed to get up the stairs. I must have hurt him bad because he didn’t chase me.”

  “I don’t think it would be Fisher’s smartest move to come up here,” Peter said. “He knows we’d get him. You can relax here.”

  “Let ’em relax? Donald said. “I don’t fuckin’ trust him. You believin’ him, Henry?”

  The old man sighed. “Don, look at his face. See the damage? You think he’d do that to himself? Just to, what, infiltrate our group?”

  “S’exactly what I’m sayin’.”

  “Don.” Peter spoke slow, avoiding a confrontation. “I see where you’re coming from, but I agree with Henry. Look at him. Listen to him. It checks out to me.”

  “Oh yeah? And what about this cellar, eh? Because we’re obviously goin’ down there, but when you take your first step and Jerry jumps out swingin’, then what you gonna do? He pushes you down the rest of the steps and locks that door. You’re stuck down there. And you’re in much better shape than a heroin junkie and a dead kid. That fuckin’ Phobos could get inside you easier than I could a hooker at midnight, am I right? Then he’d be back. And that’s what Jerry Fisher wanted all along, isn’t it? To bring this thing to life in our world? How fuckin’ convenient. Nuh-uh. I ain’t buyin’ this fuck’s story for a second.”

  Peter had to admit Donald had a point. Jerry Fisher and Harris Dawson had gone to extreme lengths to get the group here, after all, to use them as guinea pigs and cocoons for their Lord and Savior. They had the money and the resources, who’s to say they couldn’t hire a man who was willing to bruise himself up for a large chunk of cash?

  “I tell you what,” Peter said. “Henry and I will go check out the cellar. How about it, Don? You don’ trust this man, so you keep an eye on him. Jerry can’t take the both of us on at the same time. If Paul’s telling the truth, we have him cornered. If Paul’s lying, well then, we’ll corner him. Somehow or other. And all the while, you can stay here and watch him. He’s in no condition to make it very far. How does that sound?”

  Donald thought it over, his face twitching. Leaving the man alone with Paul wasn’t the best option, but Peter saw no other choice. After all, Donald had killed two men.

  “Okay.” Donald said at last. “That’s what we’ll do. You two go. I stay here.”

  “You sure?”

  “You not?”

  Peter considered, then nodded. “Henry, let’s go.”

  From the couch, Paul cried out. Peter thought it sounded as authentic as it gets. No man could wail that way if they weren’t feeling it.

  “Keep alert,” Henry said to Donald they left the room. “Shout if you need us.”

  Peter watched every inch of the hall as they passed, afraid of being caught unaware by the beast. Twice, he heard a board creak but Henry assured him it was just the house settling from the weather.

  “Can you believe it?” Henry asked. “A hidden cellar . . . That’s like something H.H. Homes would do.”

  “Who?”

  “Never mind. Hey, stand back.”

  Henry eased open the kitchen swing door and stepped inside. “Looks clear,” he whispered, and Peter followed. A row of white-doored cupboards sat below the sink, a sink Peter remembered washing a face cloth in not all too long ago while talking to a happy and smiling Paul.

  “One of ’em’s open,” Peter said, getting to his knees and closing his fingers around the opening. He eased it open and peered inside. “Henry, take a look at this.”

  “My god.”

  Before them, dusted wooden steps descended into darkness. Red bricks lined the walls, caked in dew-glistening spider webs. Peter couldn’t believe the sight. Somewhere down there, Jerry Fisher hid.

  “Jesus Christ,” Henry said, making Peter jump. “Sorry, kid . . . I’m just in shock he told the truth about this place. Look at this thing.”

  Peter couldn’t articulate how he felt. The sight reminded him of something from an old school horror movie, something with Vincent Price and clueless victims.

  Not unlike now . . .

  Peter kept his voice low. “I want to get down there before I lose my courage. Follow me.”

  With a deep breath, he crawled inside the opening. Crouched on all fours, he guided himself with his hands, feeling where to go. The cold floor pressed into his palms, making his arms break out in gooseflesh. Then he felt the wood of the steps. Behind him, he heard Henry grunt as the old man struggled to stay behind.

  “All good?” Peter whispered. “Slow and steady, just keep moving.”

  “All good. Don’t worry.”

  Easier said than done, Peter thought. You go head over ass and you’re taking me with you, Henry . . .

  Peter never imagined himself to be claustrophobic until that moment. With Henry directly behind him, inky darkness pressed in from all sides. The walls seemed too close, the ceiling too low. Even if he’d wanted to, Peter couldn’t open his arms to full length. He couldn’t scoot backwards if needed, either. The only way was forward, one hand at a time. And if Fisher had set a trap . . .

  Peter’s hand connected with packed, cold earth. He decided not to tell Henry he’d reached the bottom and instead eased himself up as quiet as possible. He heard Henry take the last step and stand, too.

  Where the hell are we?

  Feeling around in the darkness, Peter’s hand met the gnarled and hard wood of a door. He skimmed his fingers around, discovering a new texture, rough and solid.

  A handle, He thought.

  He could see the door in his mind’s eye, the wood grayed and the handle rusted. Peter pressed against the door, slowly adding more weight. The door eased open without a sound. He felt around the inner wall, staying as silent as his body would permit. His heart rammed his chest like a kick drum and he worried the whole house could hear it. A hand patted his back, forcing a gasp. Peter turned, despite not being able to see, and Henry apologized.

  “Got to be a light switch, hold on.”

  Peter felt something small and plastic protruding from the wall and sighed with relief before thumbing the switch down, filling the room with a piss-yellow glow. The cellar looked empty.

  “I don’t see him,” Henry said, keeping his voice low.

  On the left, ancient looking barrels
flanked the moss covered stone walls in racks, their wooden lids damp and shining. An organic rot filled the air, musty and stale, but ghosting just beneath lay the sharp scent of fermenting wine. Another odor made Peter gag, putrid and rotten. The smell of spoiled meat. Two wooden tables stood to the right, the closest covered by an indecipherable misshapen heap. Peter squinted and waited for his eyes to adjust.

  “Oh . . . Jesus . . .” he said. “I think it’s Shelly.”

  As Peter’s vision cleared, the mass on the table came into focus. A long transparent tube tailed off to the floor where it coiled in rings like a headless snake. It reminded Peter of a novelty condom. Thin blue veins lined its length, and when his brain finally registered the sight, Peter fought back the urge to throw up.

  That’s Shelly’s large intestine . . .

  A slop of stretched flesh covered the top of the table, bone protruding from innards in a stew of gore. The blood had dried some time ago, now browned like unused paint. In the mess on the floor, white lumps of what looked like curdled milk or bacon fat hardened. “Jesus Christ,” Henry whispered. “How could someone do this?”

  They moved towards the table, the putrid smell growing stronger. Peter winced. “Look there. It’s Jamie.”

  On the second table, Jamie Peters’ body lay twisted and distorted. Better shape than Shelly Matthews, but not much.

  “It’s like they exploded,” Henry said. “That sick, sick monster.”

  Peter held up Jamie’s arm. Rigor mortis had come and gone, the limb returning to its loose state. Stretch marks lined the skin, and from the feel, Peter knew inside were shattered bones.

  “He stretched Jamie out,” Peter said, dropping the arm back to the table and wiping his hands on his jeans. “I don’t mean to sound crude, but it’s as Donald said, like trying to fit on a new jacket a size too small. And look at Shelly. She’s destroyed. Neither of them were a good fit.”

  “Did you notice the stretches all over Walter? The marks were everywhere. Looked like Phobos just about managed to squeeze in there and keep calm.”

  Peter couldn’t look away from Jamie’s body. “Do you think he can use Walter again?”