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

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.