BAD DREAMS

Genre: Horror

BAD DREAMS

By Daniel Skye

It emerged from the dark mouth of the tunnel. Its skin was black and rough as shoe leather.

Ten angular appendages–five on each side of its malformed torso–helped it crawl out from the tunnel like a spider.

But this was no spider. This was a monstrosity. A creature not of this world.

Kirsty Shaw stared into its glowing red eyes. As red as the blood that coursed through her veins. Her brain told her to run, but her legs refused to accept the command. Her feet were glued to the winding path that had led her to the ominous tunnel.

She just stared in awe at the creature and its enormity. Its mouth alone was the size of a manhole cover, and its teeth looked like they could chew through one. A forked tongue slithered in and out between two rows of jagged, needle-like teeth.

Run, Kirsty! Her brain was screaming. Run for your life!

            But Kirsty was paralyzed with fear. It crawled along the path, picking up speed. It was now mere inches away; its mouth stretched wide, ready to devour. She closed her eyes and screamed.

Then she snapped awake. When she opened her eyes, she was alone in bed.

“Just another nightmare,” Kirsty muttered under his breath. “Get a grip, Kirsty. Get ahold of yourself.”

Kirsty wiped away the beads of cold sweat that had accumulated on her forehead and tried to sit up. Her sheets and pillowcases were drenched in perspiration. And though the familiar sight of his bedroom was enough to remind her it was all a harmless nightmare, it did nothing to alleviate the chills that crawled down her spine.

It wasn’t the first time she’d dreamt of the creature, and it surely wouldn’t be the last. But what did it all mean? Was the dream a sign? A warning? A manifestation of her real life fears and anxieties?

To Kirsty, figuring out these nightmares was like connecting the dots. Sooner or later, she’d put it together. Make sense of it all.

She glanced at the alarm clock on his nightstand. 7:55 AM. Kirsty was scheduled to open at eight that morning.

The holiday season was upon them. Kirsty worked in retail, and contrary to popular belief, the holiday season was not the most wonderful time of the year. Not for her, not for anyone who worked in Cherrywood Mall.

Knowing she was already going to be late, Kirsty sprang from her bed and quickly donned the acquired work attire–beige pants, plain black shoes, and a green T-shirt that promoted Horne’s Department Store.

Kirsty had no time for breakfast, no time to shower, no time to do her makeup, no time to even brush her teeth. She rinsed with mouthwash and combed the knots out of her long, silky, jet-black hair. Then she was out the door, in her car, and racing down the block.

            It was unlike Kirsty to speed, but she was already running late as it was. And she was trying to avoid another lecture from her boss.

Mr. Cox–who Kirsty felt was aptly named–was an intolerable man. He always had a complaint or critique to express. Kirsty was convinced he talked so much because he loved hearing the sound of his own voice.

He might’ve loved hearing it, but Kirsty did not. To her, that shrill, nasal voice was like nails on a chalkboard.

            Kirsty arrived at a quarter after eight. Mr. Cox was standing behind the perfume counter, tapping the face of his wristwatch.

            “Mr. Cox, I can explain,” Kirsty started.

            “I’m not interested in your excuses, Shaw. Do you like being employed here? Do you like having a job?”

            “Yes, sir,” Kirsty nodded.

            “Then start showing up on time. If we have to have this conversation again, it’ll be the last time. Got it?”

            “Got it,” she nodded again and bit her lower lip to avoid saying what she really wanted to say.

            Kirsty worked the perfume counter, but Robbie Vane worked sporting goods. He was the only employee at Horne’s that was the same age as Kirsty. They had graduated high school together and were currently attending the same college–Hofstra.

            She didn’t find Robbie particularly attractive. He was paper thin, his arms about as thick as twigs. His face was scarred with acne and his hair was never combed or styled. It always looked like he just rolled out of bed.

            But Robbie didn’t have many other friends, so he wasn’t one to blab or gossip. He could keep a secret. And their mutual hatred for Bill Cox instantly made them friends.

So when they had time a cigarette break later that afternoon, Kirsty confided in him about her nightmares.

“Dreams and nightmares don’t mean anything, dude,” Robbie told her. Even though she was a girl, Robbie still called her dude. He called everyone dude or man or bro. Potheads tend to do that. “I have bad dreams all the time. They don’t mean shit.”

“These are different,” Kirsty said. “They’re so real, so vivid. I know myself. And I’m just not that imaginative. There’s got to be something that’s triggering it.”

“You said this thing lives inside a tunnel?”

“As far as I can tell.”

“What’s the tunnel like?”

“Why?”

“Just curious.”

“It’s an old tunnel below an abandoned train trestle. Too narrow for any vehicle to squeeze through. But it’s deep. In my dreams, I can’t even tell where it ends. It’s too dark to see. And there’s a long, winding path that leads to it. I remember every detail. I remember the path, the trees, the dry brush, and sound of birds tweeting.”

“You’re reminding me of a place not too far from here…” Robbie said and trailed off.

“What are you talking about?”

“You remember that nature preserve near our high school? The one where all the potheads used to go to blaze? If you walk far enough, there’s this long winding path that leads to an old tunnel. It’s exactly as you describe.”

“You’re going to have to show me this tunnel.”

“Why would you want to waste your time?”

“To put this crap behind me. To prove to myself there’s nothing to fear. I’m getting too old to believe in monsters.”

“Not me, dude. I love monster movies. Monsters in real life would be a dream come true. They’re not scary. They’re just misunderstood. Like Frankenstein.”

“Didn’t Frankenstein kill a little girl? Isn’t that why the townspeople were chasing him with torches?”

“Well…maybe he was having a bad day.”

“Tell that to the parents,” Kirsty quipped. She had a dark sense of humor sometimes.

“After work, you’re showing me this tunnel.”

Cox poked his head out the backdoor and yelled, “Vane! Shaw! Get your asses inside! You’re not getting paid to stand around and smoke!”

“See you after work,” Kirsty whispered.

* * *

            Robbie didn’t want to go, but Kirsty wouldn’t let up. So after work, they drove down to the preserve and started walking.

            “He knows when you are smoking. He knows when you are baked. He knows if you’ve done crack or shrooms. So just smoke for goodness sake.” He sang the words before lighting a joint. He took two big hits, held in the smoke before releasing it, and then offered it to Kirsty.

            “Pass,” she said.

            What Robbie lacked in good looks, he made up for in personality. Kirsty couldn’t deny that he made her laugh. He was a fun guy to be around. And it wasn’t just the pot or his random jokes and one-liners. He had a natural charisma that even he was unaware of. But Kirsty saw it.

            And Robbie was the opposite of Kirsty. He always had a smile on his face. He was always in a cheerful mood. Nothing could bring him down.

Kirsty was a girl of pensive sadness, always trapped in her own thoughts to escape the threat of reality. She was always thinking, but never expressing herself. And if she didn’t look sad while she was silently thinking, she looked miserable. She didn’t even realize she was scowling until Robbie pointed it out to her.

“What’s the matter?” he asked. “You’re not feeling the Christmas spirit?”

“Not particularly. How can you enjoy Christmas when we work retail? Christmas means mobs of people, ignorant and impatient shoppers, last minute gift buyers, thousands of returns. It’s enough to make my head spin.”

“I try to look on the bright side of things,” Robbie said and shot her a smile. His smile was infectious, because it broke her scowl and forced her to smile for the first time that day.

            “What’s the difference between an elephant and elephant seal?” Robbie asked with the joint dangling from his lips.

            “What?” Kirsty asked, waiting for the punchline.

            “Fuck if I know,” Robbie shrugged.

            The path they walked was long and winding. The scenery was just as it was in her nightmares.

“If I remember correctly, the tunnel should be just up ahead.”

“This is definitely the place,” Kirsty said and shuddered.

“What makes you say that?”

“It’s exactly like my dreams. This can’t be a coincidence, right?”

“Sure it can. Maybe you saw this place before when you were younger and something about it scared you. Maybe it’s been drifting around in your subconscious this whole time, and now it’s trying to force its way out.”

“I’ve never been here,” Kirsty said. “I’m certain of that. Only in my dreams.”

“I told you before, dreams don’t mean shit. I had a dream once where I was a pirate. What does that tell you? Nothing.”

“Thanks for sharing,” Kirsty said. “I feel very reassured.”

“Hey, look,” Robbie pointed. “There it is.” Without realizing it, she drew closer to Robbie as they approached the opening.

Nothing was visible beyond the mouth of the tunnel. But the very sight of it chilled her to the core.

            “See?” Robbie pointed with the hand that now held his joint. By then it was practically burning down to his fingertips. He flicked the roach aside and added, “Nothing to be afraid of. No monsters. No Frankenstein’s. It’s just an old tunnel.”

            A hideous screech echoed through the tunnel and reached their ears. Robbie gave her a look as if to say, no, it can’t be possible.

            Kirsty stared at the mouth of the tunnel and watched it emerge. Its glowing red eyes stared right back at her. And then they turned their attention to Robbie Vane.

Its forked tongue wagged back and forth, brushing over its sharp, needle-like teeth. It skittered across the path with its long, angular legs, moving like the biggest spider Robbie had ever seen.

Kirsty was paralyzed with fear, just like in her nightmares.

But this was no nightmare. And the creature that seized Robbie with its ten angular appendages was no spider. This was your worst fears brought to life. Was it alien? Was it spawned from the depths of hell?

Kirsty would never know. Its origins would forever remain a mystery.

            Robbie screamed–a brief, weak, muted scream that could barely convey the pain he felt.

         And Kirsty shut her eyes, praying when she opened them, she’d wake up in her bed, safe and sound…

RESET: PART ONE

Genre: Science Fiction

RESET

By Daniel Skye

“It’s the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fine.” – R.E.M.

PART ONE: IKONDA

            Oh where, oh where do I begin?

            I suppose I should properly introduce myself. Isn’t that how this thing works?

            I tell you my name, where I’m from, a little about myself, and we establish a connection. Then by the end of my story, you’ll feel like we’re old schoolyard chums. Like we’ve known each other for years.

            But after you hear my story, I’m not sure you’ll want to know me. Because, truthfully, I’m not sure I want to know me. Not after what I’ve seen, what I’ve done, what I’ve been through.

            My name is Stephen Rhodes. Twenty-eight years old with a full head of curly, dark brown hair. When I neglect to shave, some people say I look like Jake Gyllenhaal.

            This woman approached me one time in 7-11 and said, “You know, you look just like Tobey Maguire from that Zodiac movie.”

I paused, thought about it for a moment, and said, “Are you sure you’re not thinking of Jake Gyllenhaal?” But the woman was insistent that it was Tobey Maguire. Regardless, I accepted it as a compliment.

Though, other people have told me I resemble more of a young Bill Murray. So draw your conclusions from those two comparisons.

I never go tanning. I avoid the sun as Superman avoids kryptonite.

I never use a watch to tell time. I just use my phone like everyone else does.

I eat Honey Nut Cheerios without milk.

And I hate fruit. The word hate doesn’t even adequately describe my hatred for it.

I once worked at a restaurant that had a sushi bar. The day they fired me, I slipped mineral oil laxatives into the rice cooker. They lost fifteen customers that night. Mr. Fargas, the manager, was livid. But they never were able to prove it was me.

I also peed in the chowder once. In case you were wondering, it was Manhattan, not New England. For legal reasons, I can’t say the name of the restaurant. All I can say is never order the chowder. Or the cream of mushroom soup, for that matter…

Let’s see, any other sins to confess? Oh, I conned a girl into making out with me in the copy room of an office I briefly worked in. She was in line for a big promotion and I suggested it would drastically improve her chances. You see, she was under the impression I was a supervisor for some reason. Truth be told, I was just a mailroom clerk with a penchant for stylish shirts and chic neckties. Needless to say, I lost that job too.

I also broke a guy’s jaw in a bar fight once. I didn’t start the fight, but I sure as hell finished it. How did it start? The prick accused me of looking at his pint. Yes, he accosted me and started a fight because I was eyeing up his beer, or so he claimed. I might have glanced at it, but I wasn’t trying to take a fucking sip out of it.

And I slashed the monster truck tires that my sister’s ex-boyfriend had put on his Jeep. But that piece of crap, Deke Halleck, had it coming to him for slapping Maggie. I would’ve shattered his jaw too, but Maggie begged me to let it be.

            It was probably a good thing she did because Deke Halleck was a big, tall, burly bastard with a flattop haircut and a neck as thick as a tree. His fists were roughly the size of my face. He could have pulverized me. Pounded my ass into oblivion. Thankfully, it didn’t come to that.

            I can be rude, surly, ill mannered. And as you’ll learn, I have a tendency to curse like a drunken sailor whose ship just sank.

But I’m also one of the most honest people you’ll ever meet. I’ve never stolen a thing before in my life. I never even fingered a piece of bubblegum from the candy rack when I was a kid. “Five finger discount” was not a phrase that existed in my lexicon. That was something for the other kids that would grow up to pump gas for a living.

I never stole. I never cheated on a test. And I’ve never told a lie. Okay, that last part might be a lie.

But please believe me when I tell you the story you’re about to hear is true.

It’s a story about how I ended the world.

And saved it.

*  *  *

            Like many other appliance and gadget obsessed Americans, I’ve developed an unbreakable habit of checking my cell phone every morning. It’s the first thing I do when I wake up.

So on Wednesday, March 5, 2014, I woke up and immediately reached for my phone. It wasn’t even noon and I already had three missed calls. All from Brady Collins.

I figured Brady was calling to remind me about movie night.

            Brady Collins owns a movie theater on Long Island. He bought it for a steal. And if you took a peek inside, you’d know why.

            In the lobby, a poster for the film Argo sits in the same display case from when the theater was flooded during superstorm Sandy. The flood had badly damaged the lobby. The carpets had to be torn up and the concession stand removed. The water warped the molded the padded theater seats, but the projectors and screens remained intact.

            One night, Brady and I grabbed some beers and we watched Halloween on 35mm print. Brady had acquired a bunch of old film reels from a retired projectionist, and soon our movie screenings became a weekly thing.

            He’d talk about remodeling, fixing the place up and screening old films in addition to new ones. He had this whole idea for a self-serve concession stand, just like those automated machines at the grocery store. That way people–impatient people like Brady–wouldn’t have to stand in line forever for candy and popcorn.

            But it was all a pipedream. Repairing that theater would cost thousands and thousands of dollars that Brady didn’t have. But hey, everybody needs a dream. So instead of shattering his fantasy, I encouraged his ideas.

            I called Brady back and sure enough, the first thing he did wase remind me about movie night. “I managed to track down a 35mm print of the first Star Wars.”

            “I’ll bring the beer,” I told him.

            “Oh, there’s one more thing,” Brady added. “I kind of need a favor. I’ll pay you for it.”

Pre-internet, they would’ve called me a Star Wars dweeb or just a plain old ordinary nerd. But in the modern age of technology, I wear the title of computer nerd. And proudly, I might add.

I can fix them, swap the hard drives, replace the screens, diagnose problems, remove harmful viruses. And I made good money doing it. If someone needed a replacement battery or charger for their laptop, they came to me. If someone’s computer was infected with spyware or malware, they called me. Someone dropped their tablet and cracked the screen, they had me to repair the damage.

So when Brady Collins asked me to find a cheap replacement charger for his Dell laptop, I told him no sweat. You can find anything on the internet if you know where to look. And eBay is the best place to start.

But that day when I signed in to my account, a message was waiting in my inbox. The message was from a private user informing me that someone was selling a packaged IKONDA laptop for dirt-cheap.

What’s an IKONDA laptop? I couldn’t tell you, seeing as how I had never heard of the brand before. I ran it through every search engine I could think of, but my searches turned up nil. I even tried Ask Jeeves, which sadly isn’t even Ask Jeeves anymore. Now it’s just called Ask. But I digress… The company, the brand name didn’t seem to exist.

Maybe it was a new model, a prototype for something just about to hit the market. Seeing as how I couldn’t find another IKONDA model floating around the internet, I considered the rarity of the item. And I figured anything that’s one-of-a-kind is worth money to people, collectors especially. So blinded by dollar signs, I put in a low bid.

Then I ordered a replacement charger for Brady’s laptop and headed out to catch the train. I still had plenty of time before the movie to complete my Wednesday ritual.

* * *

            Wednesday is new comic book day.

            Any avid nerd can tell you that.

I could easily get them in my neighborhood, but it’s just not the same as the shops around Times Square.

            

I live in Flushing, Queens. It’s not the Upper West Side, but the rent is manageable and I can still take the subway to Times Square.

The actual feeling of New York, that sensation I get from standing in Times Square, is almost indescribable. You could be lost in a sea of a thousand other New Yorkers who are engulfed in their own thoughts, and you can still feel right at home. Love it or hate it, it may just be the most vibrant, vivacious city in the world…if you discount Las Vegas.

Stand still in Times Square for a solid minute and you can almost feel the energy of a thousand people flowing in a thousand different directions. It’s a remarkably overwhelming feeling, but it’s a feeling I wouldn’t trade for the world. I don’t need an “I <3 NY” T-shirt to prove my love and devotion for this city.

And two blocks from Times Square is a small coffee shop that’s shockingly not a Starbucks. I make it a priority to stop there anytime I’m in the neighborhood and get a cup of the Hawaiian Kona blend.

I always make sure to stop at Ledoux’s Café before the comic book store because I don’t want the girls working the counter to see me walk in with a bagful of comics.

I walked in and approached the counter. The barista turned and smiled benevolently, but its insincerity was apparent from the lack of affection in her diamond blue eyes. Her auburn hair was weaved into a French braid. A slim, hourglass figure was veiled behind her loose green uniform and beige pants. Her nametag said her name was Tatiana.

I ordered my Kona blend and after engaging her in brief conversation, I casually asked for her number as if I was requesting an extra packet of sweetener. She pulled a brown napkin from the dispenser on the counter and jotted something down in red ink.

As she slid it to me, I noticed the scar on the back of her hand. Except this wasn’t a cut. It was more like a severe burn that hadn’t healed or been treated properly. The hazards of being a barista, I suppose.

As soon as I looked at the number, I knew it was a fake. The first three digits she scribbled down were 555. At least she was polite in her rejection. The last girl I tried to ask out before Tatiana had brandished a can of mace and threatened to call the police if I didn’t scram.

Outside the café, I crumpled the napkin and tossed it to the ground. And right on cue, a gust of wind swept through and carried it away.

* * *

Maggie, my sister, called when I got home. She called to tell me her puppy, Einstein, ate the plastic buttons off her wool sweater. I told her not to panic and to call the vet. She then proceeded to panic, screaming in my ear through the phone that she already called the vet and made an appointment for that day. So what was she yelling about then?

Nothing. She was just being Maggie. That’s how we were born. Dad swears our personalities got swapped somewhere in the womb. In many ways, he was right. Maggie was the bossy, aggressive, domineering one. And I was the one who always just went with the flow.

After she calmed down about Einstein, she told me she was expecting me for dinner Sunday night. And she told me to invite Brady Collins because she was, “Back on the market.” The thought of setting her up with a friend put a tight knot in my stomach, but I muttered something about seeing what I could do.

Then she vented about her crummy receptionist job, about her landlord raising the rent, about her car needing a new alternator.

When she was done ranting and blowing off steam, Maggie called it a day and mercifully ended our one-sided conversation. When I was off the phone with her, I ate something, read a few of the comics I bought that day, and then caught the train to Long Island.

            I stopped for beer on the way. Brady had the projector all set up when I got there. I told him I ordered a replacement charger for his laptop and mentioned dinner on Sunday night. He said he was free Sunday night and he’d be there.

I never bothered to mention the IKONDA laptop that arrived the very next day.

THE THING AT THE BOTTOM OF THE STAIRS

Genre: Horror/Science Fiction

THE THING AT THE

BOTTOM OF THE STAIRS

By Daniel Skye

            Jerry Carpenter was self-conscious about his hands.

            They were tiny and weak, like a child’s hands. His palms were soft and smooth, not rough and gritty and riddled with calluses like his pop’s hands were.

            Jerry’s pop refused to hug him as a child. He wasn’t the type to show affection. He wouldn’t even kiss Jerry’s mom in front of him, with the exception of the occasional peck on the cheek. The way he kissed her was the same way you’d give a quick smooch to a distant relative at a reunion.

           He wouldn’t hug Jerry because he was afraid it might ‘queer him up’, in his own eloquent words. So instead, they’d shake hands. Jerry could vividly recall his pop’s vicelike grip. His hands were like catchers mitts and his palms were coarse. It was like shaking hands with a strip of sandpaper.

His father had the hands of a carpenter. And Jerry had the hands of a failed writer. They didn’t look like the hands of a murderer, that was for sure.

But if ten years as a criminal psychologist had taught Dr. Strickland anything, it was that looks could be dreadfully deceiving.

Hank Strickland’s field was clinical psychology. His duty was to assess numerous individuals in order to provide clinical judgment, and to deem whether or not the individual is mentally fit to stand trial.

In this particular situation, his job was to interview Jerry Carpenter and determine if he was faking insanity or if he really was a whacko.

Jerry had babbled a mad tale to his arresting officers. He declared that the sky had opened up. That a bright beam of light fell upon them. That he stood aghast as the light seized Audrey and pulled her up into the sky.

Jerry thought about going to the police that night to report her disappearance. But who would believe him? He knew nobody would buy his story. So he waited, and waited, and waited.

Audrey returned after midnight, arriving at the front door, confused and disoriented. She couldn’t recall a single detail. Even after Jerry had filled her in, she refused to believe him. She believed in God, Jesus. She believed in Heaven and Hell. What she didn’t believe in was aliens…until she learned she was pregnant.

A week after her mysterious conception, Jerry and Audrey received several visitors. Jerry had described them in vivid detail to the police. These were not the short, grey-bodied aliens with enlarged heads and big black eyes of traditional science fiction. These were monsters. Hideous creatures devoid of any normal, human qualities.

They communicated through the power of telepathy, speaking to Jerry and Audrey inside their heads, or so Jerry claimed. Conveniently, Audrey couldn’t not corroborate his story. These enigmatic beings had warned them not to speak of this to anyone, not to take Audrey to the doctors, not to even leave the house.

Audrey took a leave of absence from Massapequa Elementary School, and Jerry looked after her as he worked on his latest manuscript. They weren’t worried about the money they’d lose with Audrey out of work. They were worried about what was growing inside Audrey’s belly.

Nine weeks later--not nine months--she gave birth. And that was what really killed her.

The cops questioned Jerry for twelve hours. They made him recite his story over and over again. And every time he told it, there were no inconsistencies, no fractures in his story. Not a word had changed.

Hank Strickland traveled light. No files, no briefcase. He arrived at South Oaks Psychiatric Hospital with nothing more than a yellow legal pad and a ballpoint pen.

Two orderlies accompanied Strickland on his walk to Jerry’s room. One was a tall, dimwitted young man who rather reminded Strickland of Lennie from Of Mice and Men. The other was a short Irish fella named Rafferty who always looked pissed off. He glared at Jerry through the tiny window of the door, as Jerry rocked back and forth inside his padded white cell.

“Sick fuck,” Rafferty muttered. “Murders his wife and then tries to play the insanity card.”

“Everyone is innocent until proven guilty,” Strickland reminded him.

“Doc, I’ve seen plenty of ‘innocent’ people dragged through these halls over the years. Trust me, none of them have truly been innocent. It’s all just an act. It beats prison, right? A cushy, padded cell. Nice drugs to keep you all doped up. This place is paradise compared to prison.”

“Doesn’t look like no murderer to me,” the Lennie Small lookalike observed. “Look at those little girl hands. Hell, even his name is nonthreatening. He couldn’t harm an ant if he stepped on it with all his might.”

Rafferty supplied Hank with a folding chair and unlocked the door. “You sure you want to go in alone?” Rafferty asked. “I wouldn’t trust this freak if I were you, Doc.”

“I’ll be fine,” Strickland assured the orderlies.

“Well, we’ll be waiting for you right out here. Just holler if you need anything.”

“Will do,” Strickland said and stepped in. Rafferty slammed the door behind him and sealed it tight. Strickland unfolded the chair and took a seat, resting his legal pad and pen in his lap.

“I’m not insane,” Jerry laughed. “But this room is enough to drive anyone bonkers. I mean, why all the white? And you know how quiet it gets at night? This room, this place, is enough to make anyone go crazy.”

“Mr. Carpenter, I’m Dr. Hank Strickland. I’ve been assigned to your case.”

“So you’re the one who’s going to decide if I’m coo-coo for cocoa puffs?”

“I’m not here to judge. I’m merely here to assess. This is just a simple psychological evaluation required by the state.”

“You want to hear, about my them, don’t you?”

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Carpenter?”

“Call me Jerry, please. I insist.”

“Okay, Jerry. What them are you referring to?”

“Every paranoid schizophrenic has one. A them, a they, an it, an entity. You want to hear about all my paranoid delusions, right? You want me to say I’m hearing voices, right? That God told me to do it. That my neighbor’s dog spoke to me and gave me orders. That my wife hogged the remote and I finally snapped and butchered her. That’s what you really want to hear, right?”

“All I want, Jerry, is the truth. That’s it.”

“I’ve told the truth, Hank,” Jerry said, talking to him as if they’d known each other for years. “And look where it got me. Everyone thinks either I’m a murderer or I’m goofier than a pet raccoon. They think I’m suffering from delusions, hallucinations. Only, I can assure you, Hank, these aren’t delusions. I know what happened. I know what I saw with my own two eyes.”

“I’ve read all the police reports. It’s quite a story. I’ll bet you can understand why the cops are finding it a bit hard to swallow.”

“Swallow it, choke on it–I don’t give a damn what they do with the story. Because the story is not a just some yarn or fairytale. This isn’t a lie, a dream, a fantasy, a delusion. It happened.”

“Tell me more about it,” Strickland said, scribbling notes on his legal pad.

“Why? You said you’ve read the reports.”

“Ah, police reports can be so informal. I’d like to hear it from you personally. Specifically the details about the day your wife gave birth. Also tell me a little more about Audrey, if you wouldn’t mind.”

It’s a funny story how we met, Audrey and I. We met in high school. We didn’t go to the same schools, though. She lived in Braxton, and I lived in Cherrywood, one town over. But we both worked in the same shopping center.

I was working at a pizzeria; she was busing tables at the seafood restaurant next-door. We bumped into each other outside on a cigarette break one evening. We talked for a while. I told her how much I loved seafood, which was a lie. But I was a fan of fried calamari. And even though she was concerned about her figure, Audrey enjoyed pizza as much as anyone else.

So we used to trade. She’d bring me fried calamari and I’d give her a few slices on the house. When I finally got up the nerve to ask her out, I baked her a pizza shaped like a heart, boxed it, and brought it over to her.

I used pepperoni to spell out the words, “will you go out with me?” That was also the day I learned that she hated pepperoni with a passion. But she did adore the pizza I had made just for her. She said yes, by the way. And the rest is history.

We wound up going to the same college, and married shortly after we graduated. I went on to become a mediocre writer with a small publishing deal, and Audrey became a schoolteacher whose writing blew mine out of the water. She’d write on the side for fun. I’d like to think I inspired her a little.

She never tried to get any of her stories published, but she easily could have. She could’ve been big. I know what you’re thinking. That’s motive, right? I was jealous of my wife’s talents. But the truth is I never felt jealous or inferior. I encouraged her to nurture her creative side. Writing had always been an outlet for me, a way to escape reality. And it soon became one for Audrey.

But Audrey was working on another writing project she was hoping I’d never find. She had a diary she kept hidden under our mattress. I found it one day when I was looking for a place to stash some money I’d won in a card game.

Audrey was so vehemently against gambling that I could never let her find it. I couldn’t keep it in my wallet in case she peeked. I couldn’t put it on our bank account because she’d notice. I couldn’t present it to her because she’d want to know where it came from. So I figured I could get away with hiding it under the mattress and use the cash for the next game. And there was the diary. No lock. Just a small notebook filled with her most intimate thoughts.

I know I shouldn’t have looked through it. But what can I say? Curiosity got the better of me. And that’s when I came across those two earth-shattering words: Biologically infertile.

Audrey always wanted a baby. I think that’s why she became a schoolteacher. In a way, she was a mother to every student in her class. She cared for all of them as if they were her own. But the doctors told her she wasn’t capable of bearing children. She was biologically infertile.

We considered options over the years. Adoption. Finding a surrogate. But we just never settled on a choice. So much time had passed and things were perfect the way they were. A child would have complicated things at this point in our lives.

We lived a very normal life. We had dinner together every night, went to the movies, went on walks together, held hands everywhere we went. We went to church on Sundays. Audrey came from a very religious family, so attending church was a weekly requirement.

I’m not very religious myself, but I went just to appease Audrey. She believed in a higher power. Me, I tend to believe in what I can see with my own two eyes. That’s how I know what happened that day was for real.

The clouds departed at their arrival. I saw the ship before I saw that blinding light. The tractor beam, those conspiracy theorists and Sci-Fi writers call it. That light, that tractor beam, it snatched Audrey and sucked her up into the ship.

It wasn’t round or disc shaped like everyone imagines a UFO would be. It was an architectural monstrosity. Twice the size of a house, and three times as complex in its design. When that light took Audrey away, I was sure I’d never see her again.

But when she returned, I felt a wave of relief wash over me. I thought the worst was over. But she hadn’t returned alone.

It started a day after the abduction. Cramps, nausea, fatigue, morning sickness, abnormal food cravings. She took a test the same day and confirmed her worst fears. Audrey was pregnant.

In two weeks, her belly swelled like cheap wood exposed to moisture. Her back ached. She was persistently exhausted, nauseous, in pain. After just nine weeks, her water broke. I had no time to get her to the hospital. Her contractions started instantaneously. That baby was ready to come out.

“Keep pushing,” I told her. “You’re doing great. Just keep pushing, honey. You’re doing fine.” But everything was not fine. I couldn’t see a head. I couldn’t see anything.

Audrey wailed and moaned. But this wasn’t the contractions. This was something else. She started screeching, howling in pain, pleading for me to do something. But I was powerless.

The pain was excruciating. Her belly, it just kept swelling. The baby, it was trying to force its way out.

Audrey was thrashing and kicking her legs around. Then she just…stopped. She wasn’t moving. She wasn’t screaming. And that was when I saw all the blood. It was…oh, I think I’m gonna be sick…it was eating its way through her stomach.

Strickland sat with his hands folded in his lap over his yellow legal pad. Minutes passed before he spoke.

“That is quite a story,” Strickland concurred with the local police.

“Do you think I killed her?” Jerry asked.

“My personal opinion is not relevant.”

“I mean, come on,” Jerry said, holding up his hands in embarrassment. “Look at these hands. Are these the hands of a murderer?”

“Jerry, if you want me to believe you, why don’t you tell me what happened to the baby? If the baby is alive, it’ll prove your story.”

“The baby is alive. Only it’s not a baby. It’s a fucking monster. But I couldn’t bring myself to kill it. I wouldn’t even know where to begin. So I locked it away in the basement. I told the cops to check it out.”

“So why didn’t the police find this horrific creature?”

“It hides. It’s like a chameleon. It can adapt to its surroundings, blend in. It lets you see what it wants you to see.”

“Uh huh,” Strickland said, unconvinced, scribbling more notes on his legal pad.

“Audrey had a little garden out in front of the house. There’s a rock beside it. It's fake. Lift it up and you’ll find a key underneath. Go there, doctor. Look in the basement. You’re my only hope. You can help clear my name. Go. You’ll see none of this is in my head.”

“Rafferty,” Strickland called. “You can let me out now. I think we’re about done here.”

Against his better judgment, Strickland drove his Range Rover out to the house that night. The key was right where Jerry specified, hidden under a fake rock beside Audrey’s garden. Strickland took a quick look around to make sure nobody had seen him. Then he went in through the front door.

The basement door was just past the kitchen.

Strickland stood in near darkness, with nothing but the moon shining through the window to light his path. He stood in front of that door for what felt like ages, steeling himself for the challenge.

“Come on,” he said aloud to himself. “There’s no such thing as monsters or aliens. You’re going to open this door and find nothing.”

He twisted the knob and the door opened just a crack. He peeked in and saw nothing but darkness. He opened the door wider and stood at the top of the stairs.

“Hello?” Strickland called out. “Anybody home?”

Silence. Eerie, unsettling silence.

Strickland dragged his hands across the walls, looking for a light switch and found one. He flipped the switch and the basement lit up like a baseball stadium.

“Hello?” Strickland called out again. The basement responded with a dull echo of his voice.

He waited, too terrified to descend the stairs.

The silence was maddening.

Strickland turned around and was about to call it a night.

Then he heard a creak at the bottom step.

It looked up at him with green, reptilian eyes.

Its body nearly resembled a porcupine, its brownish-yellow fur adorned with sharp spines. Only these spines were thicker and shorter in length than that of porcupines, and almost looked like spikes to Strickland. Most troubling was that the spikes seemed to pulse, contracting and expanding, as if each individual spike was a living, breathing organism.

Its mouth widened and a sound escaped that was anything but human.

As it ascended the stairs, Strickland closed his eyes and whispered, “There’s no such thing as monsters."