Category: Trembling With Fear

Chapter Four

Grant must have fallen asleep at some point, because the sun’s return woke him from a strange dream. His hazy mind recalled an old house, cobwebs and dust, silent and still. But he was back in his apartment now and had to shake the creeps from his head. He got up and looked around. There was nothing unusual about his room—his sweat-stained mattress on the floor, clothes gathered in a heap, a glass bong beside it. The window was locked, no sign of his visitor.  

In the bathroom, he wiped the grit from his eyes and flipped on the light. The face in the mirror wasn’t his own—it was white as bleached bones with sunken eyes like silver dollars. Blood-red lips and saw teeth parted in a scream stretching his jaw so wide it hurt.

Grant recoiled and collapsed into the bedroom, grabbing his face with sweaty hands. On the floor, everything seemed normal—his stubble, his broken nose, his lips, his jaw. He panted in a quivering heap until he caught his breath. Then he stood and looked into the bathroom mirror. It was just him. He shut the light off and closed the door. Grant didn’t want to see the mirror again.  

He lifted his mattress and found a plastic bag with a small dose of coarse powder settled in one corner. He bought it from the man in the car. It was always a good time, but as his heart raced, he began to contemplate its side effects. Rolling the last of it back and forth in the bag, he thought about going down to South Street and confronting the bony bastard. You sold me a bad batch. I’m seeing things! He’d probably get himself killed.   

But if it wasn’t the drugs, then what? Had something followed him from South Street? Was it really there in the dark, or in his head? Grant could still vividly see the grotesque face from the alley, and now the mirror. He wondered if Ferrill had seen it too.

***

Ferrill was moving slow that morning. The phone rang and he staggered after the sound. His body ached all over, thanks to Grant’s knobby limbs, and his mind felt like Swiss cheese. His feet padded softly down the plush carpet of his family’s home. Now he didn’t want to leave it again. 

From the comfort of his room, Ferrill could hear his mom visiting with friends downstairs and the noise of his dad’s TV, the volume always too loud. He realized for the first time that he found the sounds soothing. He had seen enough of downtown’s cruel underbelly. It wasn’t for him. He lost his interest in shady deals and back alleys. Ferrill didn’t want any part of whatever got into Grant. He took his time answering the phone. 

“Hey …uh.” Grant’s voice was uneasy.

 “Morning, douche.” There was no trace of levity Ferrill’s greeting.  

Grant felt his face warming red, thankful that Ferrill couldn’t see him. “Hey, I’m sorry about yesterday, My bad. If it makes you feel any better, I think you broke my damn nose.” 

“That’s great,” Ferrill laughed. “But I’m walking like an old man today.” The beginnings of a smile tugged at his lips. Without looking him in the eye, Ferrill remembered that he enjoyed shooting the breeze with Grant. Maybe he won’t write him off just yet. 

“You started it with that sucker punch,” Grant waded into a tease. “I’ve learned my lesson. No picking a fight with you.” 

“Don’t take me back to that street and we’ll be fine,” Ferrill’s tone darkened momentarily. 

“Don’t worry,” Grant said. “I think I’m done with all that. I don’t want to go back either.” He paused for a long breath. “When we were in the alley… did you see anything?”

At once Ferrill recalled the disappearing figure. First as faintly as a dream, now flooding back to him. “So that was real,” he spoke to himself. 

Grant’s heart pounded in his throat, “Did you see its face?” 

“I couldn’t see anything but its back,” said Ferrill. “And then it was gone, into thin air.” 

“It was horrible,” Grant’s voice dropped to an whisper. For a moment, he debated whether or not to divulge everything. He wondered if it could hear him now. “I still see it. At first, I thought it must’ve chased me home, but then I saw it in the mirror this morning.”

Ferrill didn’t want to believe him. It should be easy to dismiss Grant as delusional, but he felt his skin crawl at the thought of that thing. Creeping, following. I’m glad it picked you, Grant.    

Grant began to speak, but his voice choked. The bloody fluid draining from his nose irritated his throat. His sputtered gasps carried over the phone and Ferrill began to worry. 

“Sorry about that,” Grant regained his breath. “Hey, listen. That thing’s got me pretty creeped out. I need to get out for a while. Want to split a case?” 

Ferrill opened his sock drawer and dug out a ten dollar bill from the bottom. He delayed a moment, then responded. “Sure thing, see you at the wall.” 

Grant thanked him and held on to the phone long after the call had ended. When Ferrill’s voice was gone, he grew wary of the silence. How pitiful, he thought. Scared of being alone and the only friend you have to call is a kid. He turned to the door slowly, afraid he might glimpse something awful. Not this time, but he had to leave. His apartment felt haunted and his nose burned with the presence of dust and the mineral scent of blood. 

***

The alley wasn’t so bad in the daylight. Helms had arrived with the Detective Marshall to give the scene a definitive examination, in case something had been overlooked in haste.  Helms pulled the lopsided barricade tape away as Marshall passed underneath.

“It looks like the crime scene techs were as anxious as you,” the detective said. Then he looked back to Helms and felt a hint of his shame. “I guess I can’t blame them.” 

As they made their way down the desolate corridor, Helms noticed that the entire atmosphere of the neighborhood had changed. It still stank of smoke and garbage, but the lingering sense that he was being followed had gone. The difference between night and day, perhaps. 

Marshall surveyed the surroundings, up and down the walls, to the fire escapes, around every corner, but Helms kept his eyes trained forward. The detective noticed. “Ease up,” he said.
“Nobody ever saw it in the daylight.” 

Helms would rather avoid the subject, but he also felt the need to unload the burden. He hoped the detective wouldn’t find him crazy. Or naive. “Always in the dark. Always in a place they shouldn’t look.”

“That’s what they said,” Marshall replied. 

“Do you believe that?” Helms asked, forcing an incredulous tone. It wasn’t convincing. 

“Well, I find the whole story hard to believe,” Marshall sighed. “All those murders are related. I’m sure of that. But the walking nightmare bit? The face in the corner of your eye, damned if you look? I probably shouldn’t take that too seriously.” 

“Of course,” Helms spoke. “But I see where they’re coming from. You’ve worked some damned-awful cases around here. Dead folks stuffed under the floorboards for months. Heads in the freezer. People trapped in burning buildings…” Helms swallowed hard. “Do you ever see something so terrible that it sticks with you?”

The detective grimaced, like he held something bitter under his tongue. “You should know better than to ask that,” he reprimanded. After a long while, he spoke. “I have dreams sometimes, like we all do. But I don’t let it get to me. Everything I see in there is already dead.”

Chapter Three

A nauseating stench held thick in the alley. The light wouldn’t last much longer, and soon the two young men would be prowling along in pitch black. They cautiously turned each corner as the street was lost behind them, but there was no sign of the murder scene. 

“A souvenir?” said Ferrill, avoiding Grant’s eye. “You had to make a joke.”

“Hey, we wouldn’t be back here at all if you had just followed through,” Grant said. “I vouched for you.” 

“You didn’t have to,” Ferrill clenched his fists within his pockets. “You pushed me along too much in the first place. I told you no and we still ended up in a dealer’s car. I had to get out of it.”

“He’s right,” Grant said. “You weren’t serious. But you come downtown and act tough. I see that little knife in your shoe. First chance you get, though, you turn out chicken.”

“Shut up and let’s get your damn refund,” Ferrill sneered, his voice as unsteady as his stride.    

“Face it. You woulda never come to see him on your own,” said Grant. “I’m tryin’ to help you.” 

“This is help?” Ferrill shouted. “I’m gonna ruin my jacket tonight because you were trying to turn me into another customer. I’d owe and you’d make sure you collect. I know you would. You’re not a friend, you’re a damn mule!” 

Grant spun him by the shoulder. “And you’re a punk ass—”

Ferrill shoved his fist into Grant’s gut. Grant groaned and buckled, but grabbed Ferrill by the shirt and pulled him to the ground. The two traded blows in the filth. Ferrill cut his knuckles on Grant’s teeth, but landed a solid hook against his nose. Grant’s knee hammered his ribs again and again. They may break. Ferrill couldn’t catch his breath and found himself on his back, the young man straddling his stomach. 

With one hand on Ferrill’s neck, Grant sat back and cocked his fist. Then something caught his eye and his face drained pale. With a hand frozen in air, the corners of his mouth dropped and his jaw quivered. His eyes shone wide open. 

“What is it?” he whispered. “What the hell is that!?”

Ferrill heard something in the alley, just ahead of them. Still pinned under Grant’s hand, he couldn’t turn to see. But the sound was close, a frenzied voice that began to wail. “No… No… No!” 

Grant let go of Ferrill and tried to hide his face, now white as a sheet. Ferrill wrestled out immediately and snapped around to see. The fleeing shape in the alley was like a man, but too thin. And the limbs were all wrong. It seemed transparent, like a shadow or smoke, then Ferrill realized that it had disappeared. The wailing had stopped. The clamoring footsteps had fallen silent. 

Ferrill stood to his feet, unsure of what he saw. Behind him, Grant wept into his hands. “What was that?” he asked.

Grant couldn’t compose himself. “It won’t stop. It won’t stop yelling.” 

Ferrill held his breath and looked up into the fire escapes. There wasn’t another sound in the alley above Grant’s whimpering. He looked into the dark path ahead of them. There was nothing there. He helped the young man stand. 

“Home. I’ve got to go home,” Grant cried. “It’s still here.” Shivering, he held on tight to Ferrill’s jacket, smearing his blood across the back. 

***

For his own peace of mind, the coroner always closed their mouths when he worked on them. The South Street bodies always came in with a big scream on their face, as if whatever did them in gave them a real cheek-splitting fright. A little glue was all it took until it was time to set the features and cinch the lips tight forever. 

Today, the vagrant was on his table, with seams around his jaw like a ventriloquist dummy. The detective says that the jaw mutilation must be a calling card, the killer’s signature. It was always the brain trauma that killed them, though an autopsy showed one victim was in the middle of a heart attack. 

The coroner was making his way into the vagrant’s chest. The circular bone saw gave off a strong vibration, and it made the whole cadaver hum. He was almost through the sternum when the body’s mouth opened. 

He shut the saw off and held still for a moment. The silent howl in his periphery made the coroner’s hair stand on end. He had to speak. “What are you trying to say?” he asked. Then he set the saw down and peered into the gaping mouth. 

Gashes, identical to those on the vagrant’s torso, reached down into the esophagus. The coroner examined the wounds and determined that the same weapon must’ve been shoved down the victim’s throat. Or else something had clawed its way out. 

***

The only light in Grant’s apartment came in through the window. It was a streetlamp on a timer, switching on at dusk and taking breaks throughout the night. It often woke him up, but he wasn’t going to sleep tonight. It was well after midnight, but Grant’s mind couldn’t rest. He could still see the face in the alley.

He caught glimpses of it all the way home, its narrow form in shadows, its deep glaring eyes in the rearview mirror. Walking up to his building, he noticed a slumped figure in the doorway, but it was gone when he turned his head.  

Lying on his bare mattress, Grant struggled to breathe through his nose. Ferrill had broken it during the fight—the kid may be a little tougher than Grant had given credit for. It was sour with the smell of blood, and the sensation of fluid draining in his throat turned his stomach. He turned his head for relief, his eyes landing on the bedroom wall. There he noticed the crooked shape. 

The streetlamp cast a black silhouette against his wall, tall but hunched at the shoulders. Its long fingers spread wide. The shadow was no thicker than bones, and motionless.  

Grant’s wide eyes stayed fixed on the shape. It was the awful thing he came face to face with in the alley, now outside his window, hands against the glass, watching at him. Waiting for him to look back. He couldn’t control his breath. As his body trembled, he knew his fear was obvious. It knew. And on schedule, the streetlamp shut off.  

In the dark, Grant was surprised by the pitiful sound of his own breath, unraveling into an involuntary whimper. He fought for composure and held silent. He heard something. It was a sharp, scraping sound, like scissors switching back and forth. Tic tic in the room with him. Tic tic by the window. Tic…tic…tic.

The streetlamp flashed back to life and cast weak grey light through the window. The thing was standing in the corner. As if a part of the very shadows, its body was undefinable, all but the moon-white face. Scowling like a tragedy mask, it looked upset, almost afraid. It stared at Grant, switching its long, hidden claws. Tic tic, from somewhere beneath the face. 

Beads of silver light dripped across the long, needle-sharp claws. He felt the overwhelming urge to retreat, to flee somewhere safe, but he was already home. Grant watched as it surveyed the room, no change in its expression, then it covered its face. The streetlamp cut off again and he felt fluid slither down his throat.  

Chapter Two

Ferrill and Grant reached a block of derelict buildings just beyond the convenience station. They stuck to the sidewalk, but it didn’t look like cars used South Street much anymore. The traffic light was out. Ferrill noticed that the windows up and down the street had been broken, with long black fingers spreading out on the surrounding brick. The neighborhood had burned. 

Ferrill felt a chill as the sun disappeared behind the skyline. His mind fought to form an excuse, a reason to turn back and go home. Some other time, when I have the money. They were walking through a ghost town, but he had an awful suspicion that the next shady doorway, the next parked and tinted car could hide something dangerous. Real trouble, with a serious need and a bigger knife. 

His mind buzzing, Ferrill couldn’t compose an excuse that would pass Grant’s keen nose for bullshit. He could only follow. A few steps ahead, Grant came to a sudden stop at the mouth of an alley. Ferrill leaned around him from the edge of the sidewalk. A yellow line of police tape was stretched across the opening, askew as if it was placed in a hurry. A breath of stale air emanated from the path, tugging at the tape. 

“Do you see anything?” Grant asked. 

Ferrill strained to see into the alley, but the path was too dark to discern. He couldn’t help but imagine what might be there, just at the edge of his sight. He feared he might catch some glimpse of blood stains or a dead body or chalk outlines drawn around scattered human pieces. Do they really outline bodies?

Then a sound just behind Ferrill sobered him in a heartbeat. He knew what it was—the mechanical whine of a car window. He spun to face the street and backed against Grant. The young man laughed and slapped him on the shoulder.

“Getting jumpy?” he brushed Ferrill aside and approached the vehicle. “We’ve found our man.” 

The car was as ugly as they come, an early ‘90s box of sun-damaged ruin, kept alive by salvage parts and dubious wiring, and begging for the day when its aftermarket subwoofers shake itself to death. The man in the window was older than Grant, but his voice was thin as gauze. “Hey baby, you workin’?” 

Grant laughed and pounded fists with the man. The arm reaching out the window was all bone. Ferrill saw a sleeve of tattoos running up the pale limb. He had none of his own yet. 

“I’m introducing a buddy to our friend,” said Grant. “You think I could get a little credit?”

The man whipped his head over Grant’s shoulder and eyed Ferrill with a crocodile gaze. Ferrill dropped his hands in his pockets. He tried looking back at the man, but the eyes made him itch. The man stroked a rusty patch of scruff on his chin, looking back to Grant with sour pursed lips.

“He’s not serious and you know it,” he said, withdrawing into the car. 

Grant pleaded with him, “Hey, he’s good, he’s fine! He’s gotta start somewhere. Look, I’ve got it covered.” He produced a wad of cash that wasn’t there at the gas station. 

A blue-veined hand snatched the money in a flash, and Grant held his hands back in submission. “Get in the car,” the man said. Grant complied. “You too, Jimmy Dean.”

Ferrill lowered the collar of his leather jacket as he climbed into the rattletrap. He slid onto the backseat and swung the door shut. The man spun his neck around. “Don’t slam the door, stupid!” 

Ferrill shrugged, “Sorry.” 

The man rolled up his window and mashed the door lock. “Just keep real quiet. We don’t want anybody looking at us.” His eyes darted outside briefly, then returned to Ferrill. He flipped open the glove compartment and produced a plastic bag of powder. A crooked grin parted his face. “I want to see him try it.” 

Ferrill’s head pounded. He’d have an audience. He’d bump his street cred. He’d look tough and he’d become tough. And it would be a high like he’s never experienced before. Maybe just once won’t hurt. 

Grant held out his hand and the man poured a generous line across it. “Go ahead,” said Grant. “It’s on me.” 

Ferrill wrapped a hand around Grant’s wrist and drew it toward his face. He could feel that Grant’s pulse was excited. He looked up to the dealer—neck craned and blistered around the lips. He hesitated and his mind wound up the excuse mill again. “What happened in the alley?” he asked, releasing Grant’s wrist. 

The man grabbed Grant’s arm and snorted the line himself. “I knew he wasn’t serious!” 

Ferrill tried to save face, “Hey I was getting to that.” 

The man stared him down with bloodshot eyes. “You were, huh?” he thought for a moment with elevated breath, the rotten grin slowly returning to his face. “You really wanna know what happened in the alley?” He unlocked the doors. “There was a killing last night. Somebody was cut up bad. They wheeled him out with red all over his sheet. There’s still blood on the ground. Why don’t you go back there and check it out.”  

“That’s sick, man,” Grant said. 

“If you go, we can talk about a refund,” the man offered, returning the bag to his compartment. 

Grant sighed and gave Ferrill a hard punch in the shoulder. “Fine. You want us to bring you a souvenir?”

The man laughed, “The ground is still sticky. Get some of that blood on your jacket and wear it out.” 

Ferrill leaned forward, “There’s no way I’m gonna—”

Grant checked Ferrill hard to shut him up. “You’re on his bad side. Do what he says or you’ll find yourself in big trouble.” 

Ferrill looked back at the serious man. The red eyes jabbed back like daggers. Ferrill threw his hands in the air and stepped out of the car. “Let’s go,” he said. Then he pulled his jacket collar tight and ducked under the police tape. 

                                                                        ***

 Officer Helms stayed at the coroner’s office all night. He finished a pot of coffee and he didn’t want to sleep. He had seen horrible things before—car crashes, stabbings, gnarled burnt bodies. The mauled face wasn’t the problem. He saw worse at the cadaver farm. It was what he didn’t see that troubled him. It was the fleeting crooked thing at the edge of his vision. He couldn’t take his mind off it. 

Against his will, his imagination tried to fill in the blanks. The thing lingered in his thoughts, a persistent phantom in his periphery. He felt as if it followed him from the alley, tailing his cruiser in the night. In the cold white florescence of the coroner’s office, he thought he saw its long shadow limb stretch from the far corner, the boogieman emerging from the closet. 

Then he heard a voice call his name. 

“Helms…” 

He snapped back to consciousness. The shadow was gone and the coroner stood before him. “We’ll need you to come back now,” he said, professionally somber.   

In the morgue, Homicide Detective Marshall studied the vagrant’s body. He recognized Helms from previous arson cases and skipped the greeting. “You found him in the alley off South Street?”

Helms confirmed. “Against the wall. Forensics went over the scene and found no weapons, hair, anything that would identify a murderer. Not a drop a blood that didn’t come from this guy.”

This was the first time Helms stopped to take a good look at the wounds. The man’s eyes were gouged deep and his jaw had been unhinged like a snake. Something lethally sharp carved gashes around his neck and torso. 

“Have you determined the cause of death?” Helms asked, hoping it was quick. 

The coroner waved a hand over the body’s face, “Whatever was used to gouge his eyes was long enough to pierce the brain. It looks like some kind of garden tool, or scissors. Look at the other wounds. The cuts come in sets of two.”  

“It matches the wounds of several other homicides on South Street, prior to the fire,” the detective said. “I was hoping whoever was behind the stabbings would’ve gone up in smoke.” He stared down at the sightless eyes, “No such luck.” 

Helms was well aware of the murders on South Street. Months before the neighborhood burned, the morgue had accumulated several bodies, each with the eyes gouged and the mouths pried wide open. This was the first one he discovered on his own. 

“He’s all yours,” the detective said. Then he turned to Helms. They stood eye to eye, but Marshall seemed a foot taller tonight. “I heard that you wouldn’t go back down the alley when Forensics showed up.” There was a smirk hidden just inside his stern jaw. “Did you get spooked?”

Helms was silently grasping for an explanation that wouldn’t make him look yellow-bellied. 

“Or did you see something?” The detective leaned in. “Did you see its face?”

“No,” Helms answered. 

The detective gave him a pat on the back, not as hard as Helms had braced for. “Then you’ll be alright.”

“Not its face,” said Helms, his voice trailing off. “I caught a look at the profile, but it covered its face with its …uh, hands. With these long, sharp hands.”