CELLAR

 

 

 

CELLAR

By Randy Romero

 

Donald Brackett checked his gold watch, a retirement gift from his former employer. The watch was a symbol of his hard work and dedication. A reward for all those years he put in at the plant. He appreciated the gesture, but it took him time to adapt. He had never been a watch guy. At first, he considered pawning it. But Shelly had pleaded with him to keep it.

And Donald always listened to his wife. That was, as Donald would gladly tell anyone who asked, the secret to a successful marriage. Always listen to your wife. And remember that she’s always right, even when she’s wrong. That last part usually got a good laugh from his buddies at the plant.

Donald had kept the watch at Shelly’s behest. And he was glad that he had. While Donald did own a cell phone, he rarely had any use for it. He had nobody to call, and nobody was calling him. So he seldom carried his phone around with him. The watch helped him keep track of time. After all, he had a schedule to keep.

It was almost nine o’clock. Almost feeding time.

Donald was a simple man. A blue-collar guy who enjoyed the little things in life like an ice-cold beer or a Monday night football game or a steak char grilled to perfection. You didn’t need to call him Mr. Brackett. Donald or Don would suffice. Just so long as you didn’t call him Donnie. He hated it with a searing passion. Possibly because it reminded him of the folly of his youth. His friends used to call him Donnie back then. And Donnie had been a “bad apple” in those days. He had been a drinker, a partier, and a troublemaker.

Not anymore. Don turned his life around after high school. He was a hard worker and a straight shooter. What you saw was what you got. But even the most earnest and sincere individuals can harbor the darkest of secrets. Donald’s secret was currently living underneath his feet.

Don went to the refrigerator and got himself a beer. He had certainly changed a lot over the years, but one thing that hadn’t changed was his love for a cold beer. He popped the top and the can opened with a loud hiss. He emptied the entire can into a clear glass mug. A thick layer of foam formed on top. He let it settle before he took the first sip and sighed. A sigh of adulation, of reverence. This was as good as his night was going to get.

The crooked calendar tacked to the back wall of the kitchen served as a grim reminder of his wife’s anniversary. It would be three years next Wednesday. The word anniversary didn’t sit right with him. Anniversaries were supposed to be a special occasion, a celebration. But death was not something to be celebrated.

Don enjoyed his beer in silence. The kitchen had a retro aesthetic, which really meant it hadn’t been updated or remodeled in decades. Wooden floorboards creaked underfoot every time he took a step. There was a tiny kitchen island made of white Formica that separated the stove from the kitchen table and the refrigerator. Adjacent to the island was a grey threadbare carpet that seemed oddly out of place.

Don finished his beer, retrieved a galvanized pail from his fridge, and walked to the back of the kitchen area. He pulled back the grey carpet, revealing a trapdoor underneath, padlocked. Though they were muffled, he could still hear the most awful sounds emanating from below. Inhuman, unnatural sounds. He fished the key from his pocket and unlocked the trapdoor, flung it open and peered down into the cellar.

Crawling around in the dark was the thing that had killed his wife. The pulsating, membranous mass of flesh that used to be their son.

He emptied the contents of the bucket. A storm of blood, organs, and viscera rained down into the cellar. He watched in terror as his son consumed it all. He didn’t know how much longer he could keep this up. Shelly’s death had been an accident. The others were not. The others had been sacrifices.

The guilt had gnawed away at his insides. An experienced hunter, Don had tried animals at first. Deer, squirrels, possums, anything he could shoot with his rifle and cart back to the house. But the animals hadn’t been enough to satisfy the creature in the cellar. Its appetite could not be sated. So Don had taken extreme measures to ensure his son’s survival. He didn’t understand why. He assumed it was his natural paternal instincts. He had lost Shelly, but some semblance of his son still remained behind that monstrous façade. So he had kept it alive, kept it hidden, kept it well fed.

He slammed the trapdoor and padlocked it. He needed another drink. A little liquid courage for what he was considering next.

Don retired at sixty-five, a year before his son’s gruesome transformation into the creature that dwelled beneath him. That was the year he lost Shelly. Now, at age sixty-nine, Don had very little gas left in his tank.

He was old, tired, miserable. He missed Shelly more than anything. And the guilt of his sins was slowly killing him. In attempting to keep this monster alive, Don had turned into a monster himself, sacrificing innocent strangers to his only child. He couldn’t do it anymore. He couldn’t kill another innocent soul. He had to stop it, to break the cycle.

What if the monster in the cellar simply stopped feeding? How long would it survive? Days, weeks? No matter how long, Donald knew it couldn’t live forever. So he would give it one final meal and say his farewells. Then time would finish the job for him.

He finished his beer, fetched another one. And another after that. He said a silent prayer and unlocked the trapdoor. He opened the hatch and took a deep, soul cleansing breath.

“Shelly, I’ll be seeing you soon,” he said before he leapt into the abyss.

GOODNIGHT AND GOODBYE

 

 

  

GOODNIGHT AND GOODBYE

By Randy Romero

 

 

 

Robert Marsh was beyond exhausted. He needed a hot shower, a cold drink, and a solid twelve hours of sleep. But he still had enough time and energy to tuck his little angel into bed that night.

“You brush your teeth?” he asked as his daughter, Lily, crawled underneath the covers.

“Yes, daddy,” Lily responded.

“And you did all your homework when you got back from school today?”

“Mmhmm,” she said, shaking her tiny head. With a little help from your mother, no doubt, Rob thought. Emily was always on top of Lily and her schoolwork. Maybe a little too on top of things. Most of the time, it was Emily who did the work or solved the equations for her daughter. How is Lily going to learn anything like that? Rob had pointed it out a dozen times. But Emily’s biggest fear was Lily failing or falling behind.

He couldn’t fault Emily though. He knew she only wanted the best for Lily. The best grades, the best opportunities, the best career choices in the future. Still, Rob felt it was a lot of pressure to put on a six-year-old. But Lily didn’t seem to mind. She was incredibly sharp for her age, and she actually seemed to enjoy her schoolwork. And Rob could rest assured that she had a bright future ahead of her.

“Did you say goodnight to mommy?”

“Yes.”

“You need any money for school?”

Lily didn’t offer a verbal response. Just shook her head no.

“You want me to read you a story? I think I have enough energy left for one bedtime story.”

“No thank you,” Lily said, already looking sleepy. Rob envied her. He wished he could fall asleep like he did when he was a kid. Just close your eyes and you’re out like a light. No cares or worries. No fears or anxieties gnawing away at you, keeping you awake all night.

As he tucked her in, Lily leaned in and gave him a peck on the cheek.

“Goodbye, daddy,” she said with nothing but love and innocence in her voice.

Rob Marsh chuckled. “Thank you, sweet pea. But it’s proper to say goodnight, not goodbye.”

“Not tonight, daddy. Tonight, it’s goodbye.”

Rob sighed, exasperated. “Goodnight, sweet pea.” He turned off the light and quietly closed the door behind him.

He was still wearing his office attire. He loosened his burgundy tie and took a deep breath, made himself a stiff drink. If there was one thing he needed after a long day at the office, it was a strong, uncut beverage.

He sat quietly, sipped his Scotch on the rocks, and thought about his daughter’s phrasing. Just an innocuous mistake that any six-year-old could make. But there was something so sincere, so genuine about her tone.

Goodbye, daddy.

However, it was her equally strange follow-up that had really gotten under his skin.

Not tonight, daddy. Tonight, it’s goodbye. It sounded almost menacing, sinister.

He finished his drink in silent contemplation and deposited the glass in the kitchen sink, the melted ice cubes clinking down the drain. Then he retired to his bedroom.

Emily was all rolled up in the covers, her black sleep mask over her eyes, her ear plugs in. The eye mask blocked out any unwanted light and the ear plugs were the only way she could tolerate Rob’s snoring. She had once proposed sleeping in different rooms, but in the end, she compromised with the ear plugs. She loved her husband dearly and wanted to sleep next to him every night. But she didn’t want to hear him sleeping. Rob couldn’t blame her. She had recorded his snores once and he was shocked that those sounds were emanating from his own body.

He slipped into bed and could tell she was already asleep. He was tempted to wake her, to ask her if Lily had said or done anything strange while he was at work. But he didn’t want to disturb her. He knew his wife wouldn’t appreciate it. And besides, if anything out of the ordinary had occurred, Emily would have been sure to call or text him. Best to let it be, he decided, and settled down to bed.

 

It was still pitch-black outside when Rob woke up. It was even darker inside his bedroom without the red glow of his alarm clock. He realized they must have lost power at some point during the night, and he got up in a daze to check the analog clock in the kitchen. He had an early meeting he couldn’t afford to miss.

His ears caught faint whispers from the room next door. Lily was talking quietly, but to whom?

Emily was still sleeping, and Rob and Lily were the only other people in the house. He crept out to the hallway and saw his daughter’s door was slightly ajar. He inched around and tried to peek inside to see who she was speaking to. That’s when he felt the hand brush across his shoulder. He shivered at the touch. They had dry, grizzled skin and wintery hands, cold to the touch.

He spun around and caught a glimpse of the dark apparition. It reached out, one of its icy hands seizing him. Ragged, uneven fingernails dug into the skin of his wrist, deep enough to draw blood.

He gasped and stumbled backwards, freeing himself from its grip. He grabbed his bloody wrist, wincing in pain. The apparition drew closer, and he took a few more steps back. His feet lost the ground beneath him as he edged past the landing of the switchback staircase. He tumbled down the steps, crashing to the bottom at an awkward angle, his neck snapping upon impact.

Lily stood at the top of the stairs and waved as the apparition loomed behind her. “Goodbye, daddy,” she whispered.

WEEPING WILLOW

 

 

 

WEEPING WILLOW

By Randy Romero

 

 

 

Amy Larson didn’t leave much behind for her son, Eric. A few used books, an ancient record collection, and a weeping willow tree that he could see perfectly from his bedroom window. The willow was a large, deciduous tree with a stout trunk, topped by a graceful crown of branches that drooped down, almost touching the grass.

Autumn had turned its healthy green leaves a sickly brownish yellow. Its branches hung even lower than normal. Its leaves shedding with every gust of wind, big or small. Yet through all that, it maintained its dramatic, elegant appearance.

His mother loved that tree, would sit for hours underneath, reading or sketching in her notebook. The tree was special to her, so it was special to Eric by proxy. It pained him to see its current state, but he knew in the spring, the leaves would blossom again, and it would return to its majestic state.

It was just Eric and his dad now. Frank Larson wasn’t a reader like his wife. He wasn’t fond of music or the arts. He was fond of cheap beer and TV dinners and using his fists to solve his myriad problems.

Eric and his mom used to spend copious amounts of time together. Read together, draw together, listen to music together. His mother was a Beatles aficionado. They once sat and counted all the “Judes” in the song, “Hey Jude”. He couldn’t remember the exact number, but it was a lot.

Eric Larson sat awake in his bedroom, reading comic books. The door was closed but his blinds were open. His bedroom windows faced the backyard, where he had the ultimate view of his mom’s favorite tree.

But that night, the skies were weeping. The rain came flooding down and made its presence known. He could hear it beating down outside his windows, accompanied by the occasional flash of lightning or crackle of thunder.

Dinner that night was a microwavable mac and cheese that Eric had heated up himself. His father worked late at the factory and decided to have a liquid dinner. He was passed out in his bedroom by nine o’clock. Not that it mattered. Frank and Eric had little in common and little to talk about or discuss. Eric immersed himself in comics he bought with money that should have been going to his school lunches. He always put a few bucks aside every week for comics that he stashed under his bed. He was also saving up for a new bike.

Eric was too old to believe in Santa Claus. And he had no hope his father was going to surprise him that year with a bicycle. So he decided he was going to buy it himself. He tucked a dollar away here and there, saved all his pocket change, recycled cans and bottles, checked the return slots of every vending machine he came across for stray coins.

Rain tapped against his window and the sky lit up with a sudden burst of lightning. And in the transient moments of this bright flash, he saw it.

Brooding behind the weeping willow, but not well enough to conceal itself. The sky flashed again, and he got another terrifying glimpse.

It was tall and abnormally thin, with jagged, asymmetrical claws and crimson red eyes. Its skin was as gray and rigid as the bark of the tree. It scaled it ways up the stout tree limbs and arched branches, trying to camouflage itself against the tree. But Eric could still make out its glowing red eyes in the rainy darkness.

His throat was too dry to call for his father. He turned away in fright, and when he dared to turn back, the red glow had vanished. He couldn’t spot the creature anymore, if it had ever been there at all.

He turned his back to the window, thinking that if he turned away again and then looked back, the creature would return. No such luck. The sky blinked once again and Eric got a good look at the weeping willow. Nothing was there.

His eyes frantically searched the backyard whenever there was a flash of light, but he didn’t see a thing. He chalked it up to his overactive imagination. Too many comic books and monster movies he probably wasn’t supposed to be watching at his age.

He tucked his comic books away and tried to put the horrifying image in the back of his mind. He tried to convince himself it was nothing more than his imagination. He saw what his ten-year-old brain had wanted him to see.

He crawled under the covers and shut his eyes. Piercing screams shattered the dreadful silence that had ensued since Eric first laid eyes on the creature.

The terrifying shrieks were followed by a series of even more unnerving sounds. The sounds of crunching and snapping, and the wet tearing sounds of flesh being ripped from bone.

He cowered in the dark under his covers as his bedroom door creaked open. He peeked out and saw it standing outside its bedroom. It was taller than the door itself. He couldn’t see its face or its sharp red eyes as it stood motionless in the hallway.

Then it turned and disappeared down the hall. Eric listened closely as it descended the staircase and vanished into the night, leaving him unscathed. Leaving him to wonder for the rest of his life why it had spared him. Was it truly a monster, or had it been a guardian sent by his mother to free him from the chains of his father? The question would haunt him until the end of days.