What Do Monsters Fear Read online

  Donald tried maintaining a blank expression but his eyes gave him away. For a brief instant, Peter saw that Donald knew he’d let his anger take control. Maybe even given Phobos another chance to host. Still, Peter knew Donald’s stubbornness would hold out. He didn’t take him as a man to apologize.

  Donald arched an eyebrow and nodded towards the door. If he noticed Shelly Matthews’ burst-open body on the floor, or Jamie Peters’ remains on the nearby table, he didn’t say a word. He noticed something else, though.

  “Look at that. Laundry shoot. Same as the one in the lady’s room. Guess that solves one mystery. Must’ve ran to it and screamed up for help. Sound travelled . . . And there’s us thinkin’ she was in her room.” He shook his head. “We gonna go back upstairs now?”

  “Sure,” Peter said. His body ached and he needed to sleep. Too much had happened. “Lead the way.”

  As Donald started up the stairs, Peter looked to Jerry Fisher’s body on the floor, his stomach roiling.

  Definitely dead . . . No doubt about that. Jesus . . .

  Using his bare hands, Donald had shattered the man’s skull. Jerry’s nose hung from a thread on his right cheek as blood pooled and glistened, collecting in the facial cavity. Peter shook his head in bewilderment and turned for the stairs. Their only hope of escaping died with Fisher, who now meant nothing more than a dinner bell to flies and maggots . . . Or, Peter thought, to something far worse . . . Why didn’t Donald think of that?

  Henry closed the cellar door behind them, cutting the light and plunging the staircase into darkness. None of them said a word as they climbed up into the kitchen and made for the living room. Once there, Peter looked to the couch where Paul had been.

  “Where is he?”

  “He was here,” Donald said, raising an open hand. “I swear. Started shakin’ and shit when you guys went down to the cellar. I tried callin’ you but you mustn’t have heard me. Tried pinnin’ him down but he just kept convulsin’. I’m tellin’ ya, that blow Jerry gave him knocked his brains loose.” Donald’s eyes widened. “You think that creature got him like it got Walter?”

  Peter stifled the anger building inside him. Donald should’ve stayed with Paul and let him and Henry deal with Fisher. Like the plan had been. But, of course, Peter knew Donald shot first and questioned later. With a sigh, Peter informed Donald what Fisher had told them.

  “. . . But even Harris isn’t the leader in all this. If that company hadn’t given him the funds, maybe Harris would’ve let the whole thing lie and never pursued.”

  “But they did fund the fuck, and he did pursue,” Donald said.

  “And Phobos is here now,” Henry said. “Fisher paid for it with his own life.”

  “You think this company will show up? Come in blazin’ with a SWAT team or some shit? You think they know this Phobos thing is here?”

  “We won’t give them the chance,” Peter said. “We’re not letting this creature loose on the world. We’re stopping it once and for all. Tonight.”

  Donald laughed with no humor. “Three strung-out fucks are gonna stop an ancient evil god?”

  “That’s exactly what we’re going to do.”

  Henry rubbed at his forehead. “Speaking of addiction, I swear I’d do anything for a drink right now. Bourbon on the rocks. That’s pretty funny, right? The world I know gets turned on its ass and my brain bounces back to alcohol.”

  “The hook sure is deep,” Peter said. “Every time we even have the smallest break, I’m thinking of a drink, too. Or a smoke. It’s insane. But fuck me, what I’d do for a beer right now.”

  “Well,” Donald said. “Let’s just take it one step at a time, all right? Look, Phobos took Paul’s body and it’s in pretty good shape besides the beatin’ he took off Fisher. He’s around here somewh—”

  As if in response, Paul stumbled into the room. Peter jumped and pulled the other two men back, his heart racing and his skin crawling. The deadman stood in the doorway, his damaged head lowered, saliva dripping to the floor.

  Henry covered his mouth. “Jesus Christ . . . Look at him!”

  Paul’s body was contorted out of proportion, as if Phobos wore his flesh like clothing two sizes too small. His right elbow jutted through the skin, the bone covered in ribbons of torn muscle. His stomach, which had been flat and in good shape when Paul lived, now spilled over his jeans as if pumped full of fat. His knees bent from the weight, Paul shuffling inside, dragging his feet along the ground. He raised his head.

  “Howdy, boys.”

  The deadman’s head jutted at odd angles, stretched by the daemon. His broken skull pushed at his bald head like a balloon full of rocks. One eye sat an inch lower than the other, his crooked mouth leaking.

  “Jesus Christ,” Henry whispered.

  “No Jesus here, Henry Randolph,” Phobos said using Paul’s mouth. His voice was mush, like dead leaves clogged in a pipe. “Jus’ me.”

  Shuffling forward, Phobos reached out like a monster from one of those Living Dead movies. Then he moaned, pushing aside the broken door with his foot.

  Donald whined. “What do we fuckin’ do?”

  The three men backed up, matching Phobos pace for pace. Paul’s dead eyes fell about the three of them, slithering from one to the other. Peter had a moment to wonder if the creature used the eyes like the organs were intended or if he saw through some other means. Looking into them, Peter saw no life, only two glossy balls falling about inside their sockets.

  Peter’s stomach tightened. After all they’d been through, after all they’d heard and seen, now he feared Phobos. He couldn’t deny it.

  Peter’s back hit the wall, and Phobos leaped. They crashed to the floor.

  Fuck!

  The weight bore down, making it hard to breathe. The fatty stomach rolled about, squishing Peter’s ribs like a waterbed filled of raw meat. Peter grimaced and batted at the creature’s shoulders, his breath unable to reach his lungs.

  The deadman’s face crawled inches from Peter’s, the lifeless eyes unfocused. A trail of spit dripped from those blue lips, tapping to Peter’s cheek, icy and wet. Phobos gnashed Paul’s teeth together, cracking one in the process.

  Peter wheezed. “Help . . . “

  Over Paul’s disfigured head, he saw the other two trying. They pulled at the bloated arms, ripping them back with yells of frustration. If either let go, Phobos’ face would crash into Peter’s, sinking those cracked teeth into his cheek.

  Oh god, Peter thought. Please don’t lose your grip, please, please, please!

  Peter saw it in his mind’s eye—Phobos’ teeth clicking together just as Donald or Henry lost their grip, sending those cold, snapping teeth into the flesh of his cheek. The creature would chomp down, emitting an explosion of excruciating pain. Peter would scream as warm blood saturated his face. Then Phobos would tear a ribbon of skin away and shake it like a hungry dog.

  “Get him off of me!”

  Stars swam before his eyes in a black sea, winning over his field of vision. Peter cried out, his lungs burning, his voice far away to his own ears.

  I’m going to die, I’m not going to catch another breath . . .

  Peter’s fingers grew cold and tingled. An involuntary moan escaped his lips.

  Phobos’ face fell another inch and warmth radiated from the deadman’s skin. Paul’s body hadn’t even gone cold yet.

  Peter’s ears filled with the sound of his own throbbing blood. His eyes pulsed in time. Someone moved about the room, but Peter’s mind drifted. He couldn’t concentrate. Not even when the cold enamel of Paul’s teeth pressed his cheek, and slowly began to close . . .

  Air rushed to his lungs like a vacuum. Peter’s arms closed over his chest where the creature no longer sat. He bolted up, his legs thrumming in agony. Shaking, he fell for the couch, unaware of his surroundings. Slowly, the room returned to normal.

  “Peter, can you breathe?”

  Henry, Peter thought. It’s Henry.

  He tried to breat
he but only managed a wheeze.

  Donald tackled the fuck, Peter thought, his mind slowly returning to normal. He let go and charged the bastard . . .

  Donald pinned Phobos to the floor, just as he had Jerry Fisher. A string of obscenities flew from the man’s mouth as he brought his bloody fists down again and again.

  He’s going to cave his head in, Peter thought. So Phobos will flee and have to find another host!

  “Henry, come on.”

  They ran to Donald who lay in another barrage of flying fists.

  “I’ll kill you!” Donald roared. His vocal chords sounded in danger of tearing from the force. “Yasonofabitch, I’ll fuckin’ kill you!”

  It happened so fast that both Peter and Henry skidded to a halt. Like a snake striking its prey, Phobos whipped Paul’s head up and bore those broken and bloody teeth. He struck for Donald’s throat—and bit.

  Donald screamed, throwing one final fist into the creature’s deformed face. Paul’s head cracked the floorboards. Donald staggered, blood spilling down his shirt, and fell against the wall. A gurgle escaped his mouth, his face losing color. Eyes shining with terror, he looked to Peter and removed his hands from his throat, letting out a gush of crimson.

  Peter shook his head, his legs weak. His mouth moved, but no words came.

  Donald fell.

  He crashed face down onto the floor with a sickening thump, blood pooling beneath him. He twitched once, then lay still.

  “No . . . No, no, no . . .”

  Beside Donald, the deformed deadman rose, his jaw working on the chunk of Donald’s throat. His voice came garbled. “Nothing like Italian meat to placate hunger . . .”

  Rage boiled inside Peter, coursing through his veins and forcing his hands into tight fists. An image of Beth with their newborn child flashed in his mind. How could he have let his guard down and allowed this creature to frighten him? He had to get home.

  Without thinking, Peter charged Phobos. He wrenched his foot back and kicked the deadman square in the nose. A revolting crack rang out as Paul’s head flew back, then the body hit the ground.

  Peter brought his foot down again and again on the deadman’s face, continuing the job where Donald had stopped. If Phobos wanted to try and strike him now, he’d have a hard time doing so- Peter mashed the lower jaw to a pulp. Bone resisted beneath his heel before giving way with a stomach-turning crack. Each lift of his foot revealed a more disgusting sight.

  Paul’s body no longer moved. His lifeless eyes had closed. Phobos had left.

  “Donald,” Henry said. “Jesus Christ, he’s dead, Peter.”

  Peter looked to the man on the floor. A wave of sorrow washed over him. Donald had been hotheaded, true, but he’d only been looking out for the three of them in the long run. After all, how was he to know that Jerry Fisher had any answers, or was willing to give them up? Donald only saw the enemy. And he tried to put a stop to said enemy the only way he knew how—with brute force. For Peter and for Henry, he had tried.

  So much blood . . .

  “Peter, is he gone? That bastard, is he gone?”

  “In search of another host.”

  Henry’s eyes widened. He wiped tears from his eyes. “Then we have to . . . You know what.”

  “What?”

  Henry sniffled. “We need to damage Donald’s body. That fucking bastard can possess him. Use the body, right?”

  “No, Henry—”

  “You know as well as I do that we need to do this.” Henry coughed, tears rolling down his cheeks. “It’s the right thing!”

  “But maybe Phobos can’t, maybe, I mean—”

  “Peter!” Henry’s eyes vibrated in their sockets. “He used everyone who’s died so far except for Fisher, now I’m thinking it’s because of the state of the body, what’s the use? We need to do this or this thing can host again.”

  Peter sighed. “How do we do it?”

  “It removed itself from Paul when you destroyed the head.” Henry took a moment to collect himself, looking to the roof and blinking away fresh tears. “Maybe it could still possess the body, but in the long run I’m guessing it would be no use. With Walter, all those cuts and the sliced open stomach, I’m guessing that’s not much use anymore, either. Phobos needs a body in a good a condition as he can get it. So he can shape it in the form of himself. His real shape. Didn’t you see that with Paul? He was completely deformed.”

  “Still doesn’t answer how we should do it.”

  Henry sighed. He pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed. “Fuck it,” he said. “I’ll do it. We just need to get it done, that’s all that matters. And ruining the damn head like you guys just did seems to work . . . Phobos must have trouble if the brain is damaged.” He lifted himself from the floor. “Let’s make it as difficult as we can for him.”

  Peter stayed silent. Henry sniffled.

  “I’m so sorry, Donny. I’m so very, very sorry.”

  Henry stood above the man and took a deep breath. Peter guessed if he had a moment to doubt himself, he’d freeze.

  No overthinking . . . Thank you for being the one to do it, Henry . . .

  Squeezing his eyes shut, Peter clasped his hands over his ears. He felt the ground thump with every stomp of Henry’s boot, ringing up his legs and through his body. He heard Henry grunt, the sound muffled, with each hit. Then came a crack, followed by a dreadful squelch. Then, nothing.

  “Peter, help me with the carpet. Please.”

  Peter opened his eyes. Henry stood before him, panting and covered in sweat. Gore caked the bottom of the old man’s jeans. Instead of looking there, Peter looked Henry in the eye and nodded. They dragged the carpet from the center of the room, covering the unspeakable ruins of Donald’s remains. Peter looked to the ceiling and tried shake free the glimpse he caught of Donald’s crushed head. He blinked away tears that threatened to overspill.

  “Hey,” Henry said, giving his shoulder a squeeze. “It’s done.”

  Peter stepped away, the sight of Donald’s form wrapped in the white carpet making him ill. It reminded him of some fat, unnatural worm.

  “The curtains,” Henry panted. “To cover Paul, too.”

  Together, they tore the curtains from the window frame and covered Paul’s remains, hiding the despicable sight.

  Henry planted his hands on his hips and sniffled. “It’s a nightmare . . . We’re the only ones left.”

  “But he can’t get us now. We just have to wait for the snow to thaw. Then we make a run for it. If he could leave this place, he would have already . . .”

  “He ruptured Jamie Peters’ body to pieces, you don’t think that’s still usable, do you?”

  Peter shook his head. “No. He tried already. We’re all that’s left. All he can do is conjure up something from our subconscious, try and project our fears and make us take our own lives. But we’re not going to let that happen. We’ll figure out a way to destroy this thing, once and for all.”

  Fear licked across Peter’s stomach as a new idea hit. He hated himself for not having the notion sooner.

  Oh, please, let me be wrong . . .

  “He’s gotten a lot of practice squeezing into fresh bodies,” Peter said, his mouth dry. “Henry . . . This might sound crazy, but . . . Where’s the cat?”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  A NOISE BELLOWED FROM THE hallway, making Peter’s skin crawl and his hair stand on end.

  He remembered hearing two tom cats fight outside his window once when he was a teenager. He’d shot out of bed like it was on fire. At first, it sounded like a distressed baby. His heart entered the back of his throat while he made his way to the window and peeked out the curtains. But of course, there’d been no abandoned baby. Instead, two stray alley cats hissed and circled one other, their hair and haunches raised. Peter watched until one made that noise again, just like a baby wailing.

  The noise from the hallway sounded the very same. Only amplified, and guttural.

  The size, Peter thought. Oh Ch
rist, the thing must be gigantic . . .

  “Henry,” He said, his legs wanting to give out. “Alisa . . . The damn cat . . .”

  Henry whispered, his eyes wide. “I know, keep quiet . . .”

  The creature purred from the hallway.

  “He’s toying with us,” Peter said. “Same as any cat . . . Henry, what? What is it?”

  Scrunching his face, Henry said, “Something’s on the tip of my tongue . . . An idea . . . Just can’t make it out yet. Slips my mind every time. Give me a second.”

  “I don’t know if we have a second, Henry.”

  Henry raised a finger to shush him. Outside, the creature slowly paced, its claws clicking the floorboards. Peter watched the hollow doorframe, his heart racing, expecting it to enter at any moment. Then the creature slunk by, not looking in, and was gone. Peter’s heart bashed his ribcage.

  Like a mutated panther, He thought. Oh Jesus . . .

  The cat’s black hulk blended with the darkness like a moving shadow, only those glistening eyes gave it away as a separate entity. Passing the doorway a second time, it shot another glance.

  It’s trying to scare us to death . . . And it’s working.

  “I don’t think it’s going to stay out there for much longer, Henry. We need to do something quick.”

  “Oh my god . . .”

  “What? What is it?”

  Henry jogged to the fireplace, scooping up the leather bound book he’d been skimming through earlier that day. His fingers frantically worked the pages until he something. He held the book up to Peter.

  “The illustration again?” Peter’s patience ended. “What about it?”

  “Peter, it’s the sea. Mare, see, written there?” Henry tapped the page. “Like the French word. It must be the same in this language. The sea, Peter!”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

  Henry spoke fast. “Fisher said each one of these texts contained some grain of truth. He mentioned the Bible. I know that the King James version mentions salt over thirty times as a repellant to evil spirits. Pagans, Wiccans, all of the occult, use it as a cleansing aid for bad or evil energies. I couldn’t place it at first, but Jerry must have known because—”