Authors: A.R. Wise
“I don’t think I can.”
“I’ve been waiting all day for you to get home,” said her father. “I think you need to tell him how you feel.” He reached past his daughter, as if about to embrace her from behind, and put his index finger on the handle of a butcher knife that was lying on the counter beside the stove. His long, thin finger toyed with the knife, twisting it left and right before positioning it so the handle faced Rachel.
“I don’t know what you want me to do.” Rachel wiped the mix of vapor and tears from her cheeks.
“Do what comes naturally.”
Rachel picked up the blade and turned to speak with her father, but saw that he was leaving. “Where are you going?”
“I need to see a friend.” He opened the door and Rachel heard a dog barking in the distance. Smoke wafted in through the open door, thick and with weight, rolling across the carpet as if liquid. “I can’t stay here.”
“Okay,” said Rachel, forlorn.
“One last thing,” said her father before he walked out. “If a woman with red hair breaks through the mist…” He paused for effect and stared at his daughter. “You should run.”
He closed the door behind him, slicing the mist as if it were a corporeal mass. The remaining fog melted into the floor, lingering in her father’s footsteps for a few moments longer. As soon as he was gone, she heard the distinctive thump of a creaking bed on the floor above.
Thump, creak, thump, creak.
The acrid stench of smoke was pervasive, and only got stronger as
Rachel neared the stairs. She stared at the pattern of the thin carpet that stretched from the first floor, up the stairs, and down the hallway past. Stephen hated carpeted stairs, and she wondered why he allowed the girl to do this. Rachel stepped up, and felt moisture in the fabric beneath her foot.
The stairs were cold and damp, the water squeezing between her toes as she ascended. A girl moaned in ecstasy, the sound lingering in the hall, and the bed continued to thump and creak.
“Stephen?” Rachel called his name when she got to the top of the stairs. She was too frightened to go in unannounced. Whatever was going on inside of the room at the end of the hall promised to be torture to witness.
The thumping bed ceased after she said his name, but then it started up again, more vigorous than before. “Har
der!” shouted the woman. “Fuck me harder!”
Rachel’s heart pounded as she took another step. The carpet oozed water, and each step
produced more, as if Rachel was walking across a sponge.
“Stephen?” she asked again, but her voice was timid and meek, hardly more than a tortured whisper. If he was in there, he couldn’t have heard her. She was nearing the door, the knife held in her right hand as she reached out for the handle with her left.
Thump. Creak. “Harder!” Thump. Creak. “Fuck me!”
Her fingers rested on the knob and it was
warm to the touch. She considered turning it, but was wary to see what was going on in the bedroom.
The bed continued to pound.
Then the knob spun in her grip, independent of her action, and the door swung open. Stephen was standing before her, mopped with sweat and fully erect. He locked eyes with her and sighed before wiping his brow. He put his hand on his penis and stroked it as he asked, “What do you want?”
Rachel couldn’t speak.
“Who is it?” asked the woman in the bed. She sat up and the covers fell from her plump breasts, revealing studs in her erect nipples and a tattoo of a heart in the center of her chest. It wasn’t a symbolic heart shape, but rather designed to look like the organ itself, wrapped in barbed wire and dripping blood. “Who’s she?” asked the girl, annoyed.
“Coming in?” Stephen stepped to the side, leaning against the knob as the door opened and affording Rachel a better view of what was happening within. “I’m horny enough for you both.”
“I thought you hated red heads,” said the blonde on the bed. “This chick looks like a sorority bitch. Kappa Beta Cunt.”
Rachel
reached up to her curly, strawberry blonde hair.
“Don’t mind her,” said Stephen. “She’s feisty. Come on in, don’t be shy. Get those clothes off and let’s get to business.”
He thrust his hips at her and bit his bottom lip as he raised his eyebrows.
Rachel looked down at the knife in her hand.
“What’s that for?” asked Stephen.
“I think…” Rachel was barely audible.
“Speak up, kid,” said Stephen.
“I think Daddy wants me to kill you.”
Stephen winked and didn’t seem frightened at all. “Daddy’s little girl.”
“Do it,” said the girl on the bed. “Stab him. I want to watch him bleed. Oh, God, that gets me so hot. It’s like you’re going to fuck him
with a knife.” She put her hand beneath the sheets, between her legs, and started gyrating as she watched.
Stephen looked back at the girl on the bed and smirked, then turned to Rachel. “You’re a naughty girl.”
“No I’m not,” said Rachel.
Stephen seemed to disagree. “Come on, kid, I know you. I know you, Rachel Knight.” He thrust his hips and started to masturbate. “I know you, Rachel Knight. I can see straight through you.”
“Stop it,” said Rachel as she took a step back. The water at her feet felt like slime now, thick and slippery. It tingled on her bare feet, as if acidic.
“Fuck me with the knife.” He lurched forward, releasing his grip on the door knob and his penis so that he could reach for her hand.
There was an entrance to an en suite bathroom on the left side of the bed, and Rachel could see the porcelain, clawed-foot tub within. Fingers slid over the lip and a melting face peered over the side. A woman with red hair rose from syrupy fluid, her eyes pure white and her few remaining teeth all but lost in the blood that flowed from her sliced gums. Rachel couldn’t breathe as she focused on the horrific sight, and Stephen caught the hand that she was holding the knife in. He tried to thrust it into his abdomen, but she pulled her hand away, slipping it out of his tight grip so that he was left holding the knife alone. It seemed to slip through his fingers as if the knife itself was an apparition, and the blade fell to the thick, gelatinous fluid on the floor.
“I know you, Rachel Knight,” said Stephen. He tried to step forward, but his legs
were stuck in the fluid that soaked the carpet. He focused on his right leg and pulled, but his limb only seemed to stretch instead of coming free. Now he was a lopsided height, one leg longer than the other, and his voice turned demonic as he continued to say, “I know you, Rachel Knight.”
Then the chattering teeth returned as Stephen continued to contort. Rachel backed away, transfixed on the horror in the threshold and unable to turn away. “We’re all dead,” said Stephen in his lower, more demonic tone. “Just souls in the mist.” He grasped his extended leg and pulled until his bones began to break. Then he ripped his thigh away from the lower half of his leg, revealing the white patella behind shredded skin. His body fell forward and he splashed down at Rachel’s feet, his fingers clawing at her toes. She backed away, but still couldn’t convince herself to turn and flee.
Stephen’s face was stuck to the fluid below, and when he tried to pull himself away from it his skin clung as if he’d fallen into paste. Rachel saw his face begin to tear and he cried out in pain as he struggled. “I see you, Rachel Knight.” His words were garbled as his lower lip stayed pinned to the floor. Then a sickening rip came as his face was pulled from his skull. A skeleton with chattering teeth now lay at Rachel’s feet, and he laughed as he stared up at her.
Rachel final
ly found the strength to turn and leave, but immediately bumped into her father.
“Daddy’s little girl.”
Rachel looked up to see a skeleton’s face, eyeballs placed in empty sockets, and wire tied to the jaw. Despite the wrapped, metal wire, The Skeleton Man’s teeth still chattered.
Rachel s
creamed as the demon in the pinstriped suit wrapped his arms around her. He cackled and squeezed her tight, his throaty whisper echoing through her mind, “I see you, Rachel Knight.”
Rachel opened her eyes.
She was in the back seat of Jacker’s van, driving out of Widowsfield, a bank of white fog clouding the road ahead.
I know when
The Skeleton Man started to weave his lies, because they were always more dramatic than when his master was in control. He would focus on one person at a time, and allow the rest of Widowsfield to function as if nothing had happened. During those fractures, when the Watcher was away, The Skeleton Man left Widowsfield blissfully alone as he tortured one soul. He wasn’t careful with his lies; not like The Watcher in the Walls had been.
The Skeleton Man
’s lies were designed to cause madness, or at the very least serve to isolate one person. Since the day he discovered she was alive, The Skeleton Man was only ever focused on Alma Harper. He crafted everything with her as his victim. All the lies he designed were told to push her down the path he’d chosen.
The Watcher in the Walls
trusted The Skeleton Man implicitly. There was no reason for him not to, because parents never know at what age their babies start to lie. The Skeleton Man worked diligently for his master, crafting the nightmares that the Watcher envisioned, but all the while the demon was weaving a lie that the Watcher didn’t see.
I could see, though. And I started to lie as well.
Lost in Widowsfield
“We’ll have to ask him when he gets here,” said one of the businessmen sitting in the living room.
“Speak of the devil,” said the only woman, and the only one of the three that Stephen recognized. It was Debra Hargrove, an executive at Walsh Productions, the development house that had purchased the rights to Stephen’s upcoming paranormal web series.
She didn’t smile when she greeted him. “Hello, Stephen.”
He looked around the room, unfamiliar with the setting. They were in a small, dank home, with a modest kitchen to his right and a living room to his left. The executives, each in business attire, stood from the couch and nodded at him in greeting. They had been watching a small television, and Stephen recognized the paused screen. It was a scene from his research at the haunted house in Philadelphia, the one that had become an internet sensation after viewers discovered a ghost in the footage.
“What’s going on?” asked Stephen, tremulous as he closed the door behind him.
“Have a seat.” Debra motioned to the loveseat
caddy-corner to the couch, under the window.
Stephen did as he was told, and tried to act nonchalant. The two men sat after him, leaving Debra standing, her statuesque figure revealed by
her long, tight black dress and grey blouse. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a tight bun, and her lipstick was cherry red, like the type of librarian that exists only in pornography.
“We’ve got a problem, Stephen,” she said, still standing.
“With what?” He tried to remain calm, but his heart was racing, and his voice reflected his tension.
“I’m not going to sugar coat it, Stephen,” she said his name as if in spite. “You lied to us.”
The two men started scribbling in little blue notebooks, which Stephen hadn’t noticed they were holding until now. They both stopped simultaneously and looked back up at him.
“Lied to you about what?” asked Stephen as he crossed his leg, and then uncrossed it, fidgeting
from nervousness.
“Don’t fuck with me, Stephen.” Again, she seemed to emphasize his name with hateful intent, and he was reminded of a parent’s reproach. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.” She pointed at the screen.
He looked at the television and the video began to play, as if Debra’s finger was a remote control. The scene showed Rachel walking through a dilapidated home. In the corner of a room that she passed sat a shadowy figure, and when the creature was revealed the tape paused again.
“That’s no ghost,” said Debra. “
You doctored the footage, and then paraded as a random internet viewer that discovered him. You went around forums that were popular with paranormal enthusiasts and spread the rumor about this supposedly haunted house.”
“Debra, come on…” Stephen started, but was quickly interrupted.
“Shut your mouth, Stephen Knight!”
“Shut it,” said the other two men simultaneously.
“You lied to us, and now we want recompense,” said Debra, still standing.
“Recompense for what?” asked Stephen. “You haven’t paid me anything yet.”
“You’ve compromised our good name, Stephen Knight.”
“Why do you keep saying my name?” he asked with a nervous chuckle. “Just hold on a second, for crying out loud. I can explain everything. Debra, please, just sit down.”
She grimaced, but did as he asked, squeezing between the two men on the couch and placing her hands in her lap. One of the men on the couch moved to accommodate her, and when he did it sounds as if his joints were made of wood. “Make it quick, I have a very important meeting that I’m already late for.”