Serial Saturday: Don’t Look at Me by Tom Little, Chapter Five

Chapter Five

From the wall, Ferrill could see that something was off with Grant. He wasn’t the sobbing mess that he became in the alley, but he was far from himself. Eyes still, slow to turn, nervous. He made a point not to bring up the previous night. Not even the matter of Grant’s money, still in the possession of the dealer. Ferrill paid for the beer.  

Grant leaned his back against the concrete. It was a sound barrier shielding the downtown neighborhood from the rumble of railroad tracks. At least here, nothing could sneak up behind him. Across the wall, layers of graffiti catalogued generations of ephemeral gangs, each leaving their colorful marks on the concrete before succumbing to the new blood. There was no fresh paint in this neighborhood. 

Ferrill watched as his drinking buddy absently stroked the contours of his face, lingering on the mouth. His eyes were elsewhere, as if he was studying his own image in a mirror. Grant had already accumulated a pile of empties, but didn’t line them across the wall today. His motions were automatic—something was heavy on his mind. 

It was like a grain of sand, stuck in the eye and stubborn to leave. No matter how much probing and how many tears welled up around it, the intrusion would persist and burn. Each glance, each effort made to ease the pain would only make it worse. 

The can in Grant’s hand had been empty for a long time, but it still rose up to his lips on occasion, lowered again with no thought paid. 

“I need to go home.” Broke the silence.

Ferrill looked down to Grant. “Whenever you’re ready. Take the rest of the beer with you.” 

Grant eased out of his stupor and looked back at Ferrill. “What are you talking about?” 

Confusion turned to concern on Ferrill’s face. “You said you wanna go home. You might as well take the case back. I’m sure not letting my family find it.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Grant stuttered. But he did feel the urge to go home. He didn’t think of his neglected apartment as a safe place, though. Not after the visitation. His mind caught flashes of the dusty old house from his dream. Something in him longed for it. 

Ferrill studied him from the corner of his eye. “Maybe you should sober up before you go anywhere.” I’m one to talk. Not trying to judge, here. “I’ll stick around until you’re ready.” 

*** 

Helms was eager to leave South Street. The detective had concluded that there was nothing left for them in the alley and stripped the tape as he left. The whole neighborhood seemed brighter, but he didn’t look in his rearview mirror until he had turned the corner. 

Grant felt the wall behind him vibrate. A train was coming. As it approached, the rumble of tracks drowned out all other sound. He began to feel ill. With his hearing overwhelmed, he couldn’t sense the thing creeping up on him. Now would be the perfect time for it to rear its ugly head. It was imminent. He stood away from the concrete. He had to escape the noise. 

Ferrill watched as Grant walked stilted across the empty lot. He tried calling for him, but the train snuffed his voice like a match in the wind. As Grant reached the street, he passed a parked car, a rusted relic that had been left there for some time. He heard a sharp tapping on the inside of the window. Louder than the train. Deafening. Just for him. He glanced into the car. Reaching from the tinted haze, a gnarled, rotten hand rapped persistently against the glass with needle-sharp claws. 

Grant quickened his pace, his head spinning as he fled the old car. He distinctly heard the window shatter behind him and took off running. He didn’t see the police cruiser coming down the street. Helms was going too fast, himself fleeing the demon presence of South Street, and preoccupied with the rearview. He stopped just in time to bounce the young man off his hood. 

From a distance, Ferrill watched Grant’s leg snap backward and swing limp as his body collapsed. He was off the wall and running in a heartbeat, the sound of the train lost in his head. Helms instinctively switched on his lights and leaped out of the car. 

Grant was dazed on the asphalt. He would live, but his leg would be a surgeon’s nightmare. Ferrill booked it past the vacant car and begged Grant for a response. 

“Let him breathe, kid,” said Helms in unsteady baritone. He pulled the radio and calmed his voice. He’d have to sound composed to call rescue, and he’ll likely have to correct this witness’ understanding of what just happened. 

“Where’s the damn fire, man?” Ferrill shouted. “Where the hell were you going? You could’ve killed him!” He took a closer look at Grant’s leg and choked. The young man on the asphalt groaned, but he didn’t move. 

Helms called for an ambulance and addressed the panicked teenager. “He ran out in front of me. You saw that,” he inspected Grant for another second. “And you’ve both been drinking.” 

Ferrill fought to clear his mind, but the beer had done its job. Anything he said now would be digging his own hole. Helms directed him to sit on the curb until rescue came. 

***

A familiar siren wail preceded the ambulance. When Helms saw the red lights flash around the corner, he felt a sinking in his gut. He called in the accident, but they were responding to his own negligence. Ever since he saw Ferrill bounding over, his mind had been drafting explanations. The case of beer by the wall would help. 

Two EMTs carefully loaded the young man onto a stretcher and wheeled him into the ambulance. The teenager was off the curb and following. “Is he gonna be ok?” he asked. 

“It looks like his leg got the worst of it. They’ll check him out at the hospital,” a tech answered. “He won’t be up and walking for a while.” 

Helms stood behind the vehicle as they loaded the stretcher in. The young man sat upright, and as the dazed expression left his face, his eyes found Helms. It was a hateful, accusatory glare, crawling under his skin and demanding a reaction. Helms didn’t look away, his palm grazing his pistol before clasping his belt buckle. 

As he glared, the young man’s breath became shallow. Helms noticed his face begin to contort, like he was putting on a mask of himself. There was movement in his throat like bugs under the skin. The young man gasped.

“Something’s wrong with him!” Ferrell shouted, grabbing the tech’s arm. The other EMT was already in the ambulance, trying to secure Grant’s head.

As Helms approached, he saw a deep red trail of blood pour from the corner of the young man’s cheek. Helms froze. Grant gagged and threw his head back. In a nightmare bloom, two rows of long blades sprang from his mouth. The EMT leaped out of the vehicle in a panic. Grant strained to scream as the blades spread, his jaw ready to separate. Something in his throat made a sickening crackle. Then the blades reached out from the mouth, leading a long black figure like a snake. Another followed. They were arms. 

Ferrill collapsed in a fit, begging someone to stop the bloody tableau. Helms drew his gun. “Don’t look! Don’t anybody look at it!”   

Through the sights of his pistol, Helms watched as the arms cracked Grant’s jaw wide open, making way for something hidden in his throat. Helms closed his eyes. He heard a frenzied wailing, but it wasn’t the young man. In the ambulance, Grant gasped for breath around the slender arms slithering from his body. The claws rose and spread, and a gnarly, bone-thin creature emerged. Bracing itself on the stretcher, it studied the broken leg, then turned to face him.   

The face was pale as death, and horrified. It looked over Grant for a moment, then with a gnash of its teeth, it plunged its claws into his eyes. Pistol in hand and eyes clinched tight, Helms heard a horrible splatter, then a scream. He fired his weapon and opened his eyes. The young man was motionless on the stretcher, drenched in blood. The creature was nowhere to be seen. The two EMTs were huddled behind the ambulance, hands over their faces. The teenager was trembling on the pavement. He clutched Grant’s bandana, torn loose in the violence. He turned to Helms, “I saw it.”