Dalinth
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- Posted: Thu, 26 Jan 2012 07:57:46 +0000
HATE LIKE ME
~15 pages
Psychological Horror
Looking for opinions before magazine submission
~15 pages
Psychological Horror
Looking for opinions before magazine submission
Neil’s feet were stuck at the top of the stairs.
“I’m just gonna stay up here. I should stay, huh? Because Amy said that Lady Wormwood might come around, pissing about us being here. I’ll stay and warn you if she’s coming.”
“Don’t worry about her,” Amy said. “A warning isn’t going to do us any good. Just come on down here and hold a flashlight while we look.”
Neil paused. I could tell he was staring down the steps, not at us, but at the darkness and the dinginess. Every step was a bar in a gradient fading to true black. Amy stood one step down from me, clutching a keychain flashlight that had little authority. Beyond the last step began the basement – a room of vague shapes.
“No-o-o,” Neil said in a long and absent way. “It’s okay. I’ll watch out for her. It’ll help. Don’t you worry. I’ll shout if I see her.”
Neil put on a deliberate smile and folded his hands in front of a bulging belly. His puffy winter jacket and the short curls of his hair made him look like a grinning teddy bear. He disappeared behind the doorframe. Amy slapped her hands against her legs in frustration.
“Poor Neil,” she said. “But he’s going to be a pain in the a** tonight.”
I shook my head, thinking the same.
The basement looked like a gallery of all the silhouettes that would scare you as a child. Amy’s grandfather had been a collector (packrat), and her grandmother hadn’t bothered to sell any of his collectibles (junk) after he passed.
“Ruth’s eighty-three," Amy said. "And recovering from a stroke – I told you about that – And even she said this basement is nothing but a time-travelling dumpster.”
Her last few words were a shrill impersonation of her grandmother.
We passed between rows of shelves and boxes, many covered in white sheets, and all layered in dust. Some boxes were left open, and were filled with old clothes, keepsakes, and in one case ancient canned foods. I passed an uncovered shelf carrying nothing but an early 1900’s waffle iron. This we seized on a later day that golden summer, and found that it still made superb waffles, but that is another, happier story.
The basement was the kind of place that makes you feel someone else is there, behind some boxes, through a shelf, watching from shadows. Amy walked in short steps, hands pasted to her ribs, and I began to wonder what might be the boldest way to walk behind her.
Would she let me put a hand on her shoulder? Probably never to soothe her fear. Damn, I’ll bet John Wayne could do it just by the way he walked. What am I walking like? Not like a cowboy, that's for—
“Ow! s**t, Dante,” Amy said. “Can you see where you’re stepping or what?”
In the midst of these most pressing wonderings, I’d scuffed a heavy hiking boot down on her heel. She turned and socked me in the chest. I apologized.
We were looking for a 1914 kerosene lantern that Amy’s grandfather (and his father before) had once used for fishing. There had been a unanimous decision to bring it along for ambiance.
“If you’re gonna find a ghost,” Amy had said two nights prior, “it’s got to be done by lantern light. Like in Scooby Doo.”
Neil had then pointed out that Scooby Doo and the gang never did find real ghosts, at which point Amy had called him a smart mouth.
The lantern was wrapped in many layers of parchment paper and stowed in a big wood crate marked with the names of Amy’s grandfather and great grandfather; Marty and Ed and Fishing. We found the crate after a few minutes of blowing dust and stumbling around, and had just pulled up the bundle of brown parchment paper when Neil shouted from upstairs, “Guys, we have to leave! We have to leave right now.”
We rushed up from the basement as if a ghost was already at our heels. When Amy and I came to the top step, we found Lady Wormwood in the doorway. Neil was flustered and cherry red, asking her to please call back the police and tell them not to come.
“Guys. We have to leave,” he repeated in a breathless voice, gut heaving in and out.
“We sure as hell don’t,” Amy said, and looked straight at the lipstick-smeared woman in the doorway.
Lady Wormwood was a seventy-four year old widow who made a sleazy career out of petty lawsuits. She was marginally acquainted with civil law – her husband had been a lawyer – and would represent herself in court. To the neighborhood’s relief, her behavior had recently been decreed as “malicious use of process” by the Pennsylvania Unified Judicial System. She had since proven that although her bite was muzzled, her bark remained loud and full of flying spittle.
“We’re just here to get something from the basement,” Amy said. “Grandma gave me the keys herself.”
“Came to get something?” Wormwood repeated. “Then what’d you bring these goons for?”
“This is Dante. You’ve met him.”
Wormwood's face sagged into what probably should have been a scowl. She was always slightly hunched, and her hair always had a harsh and crooked cut in the front, as if she did it with her own shaking hands. Wormwood stabbed a pale hook-finger at Neil. “And what about the piglet?”
I saw a pang in Neil’s posture at that instant; that slightest movement induced by great emotion. In the same moment, a laugh leapt up Amy’s throat, was fought back by clenched teeth, and came out as a snort. My eyes went wide. Neil’s gaze turned down. Amy clapped a hand over her mouth, and even Wormwood paused a moment.
I turned to the old woman. What do I say? What would Han Solo say to this crone?
“Alright, lady,” I said. “Time to go. We’re leaving, anyways.”
Nice.
“Don’t tell me when it’s time to go," she said. "Spoiled s**t. I’ll have them take you away first when the police get here. One day we won’t have all you half-f*****t hoodlums running around my sidewalks in those goofy slippers and all that metal junk…”
Wormwood’s face had contorted into a hateful sneer, difficult to look upon – though I had little idea what she was saying. As she spoke and spat, I noticed Neil’s deliberately downturned face. He had done nothing to this witch to begin with. Anger welled up in my chest, but Amy was there first.
She took a long lunge forward and shouted, “******** off, Wormwood. You take it up with Grandma Ruth, okay? Bye now! And I know you didn’t call the cops. Yeah. Bye!”
Damn. Amy is so cool.
Lady Wormwood finally shuffled off the porch and into the wilted garden, defeated, mumbling that she would “indeed take it up with Ruth.”
This was a critical moment for Neil. It was plain to me that he’d need to keep his face hidden, but also that there were no excuses up his sleeve.
“Amy, let’s hurry and grab that lantern! We’ll be right back, Neil .”
And the maneuver was successful. When we came back upstairs, Neil was waiting happily, and had already wiped away the tear or two that nobody would ever see. It was easy to pretend that nothing happened, but the rest of the night he was glancing down at his belly as if he'd developed some nervous tick. Neil was the son of my mother’s lifelong friend, so our friendship had been arranged since birth. He lived in a world of sugar, cushions, and television, but never declined a weekend trip into my world – one of grass stains and firecrackers. I never minded a trip into his. But Neil had grown fatter as I grew taller. At that age, I was obsessed with being a real life action hero, and I wondered that night if I’d drag him too far.
On the other hand, Amy was a bit of a tomboy. But she was a pretty girl who cursed and climbed fences. Yeah, she had everything.
We unwrapped the bundle of parchment paper on the kitchen table to take a look. The thing was heavy, brass , and had bars over the glass casing. It couldn’t have been more tarnished, but it struck me, even at that cynical age, as beautiful in some way.
Today , the thought of that lantern frightens me, and I can only remember it as it was laying on grimy tiles, its glass smashed and its flame squelched.
My first car was a 1995 Mustang . “If cowboys drove cars,” I would say, “they’d drive Mustangs.” And I did love that car like a living, breathing horse. We left Ruth’s house and saddled up, Amy riding shotgun as usual. Neil never dared contest.
Maybe she doesn't see it, but it’s a bit cold of her not to give up shotgun this one time, when it'd make him feel better.
And yet Neil sat in the back smiling, most of his upper body leaning into the front. “Next stop,” he shouted, “S-Mart!”
The night’s ultimate goal was what my uncle had called “that place in the woods” during a tequila-smoothed conversation with my father on one New Year’s eve. They had gone snooping around the place as children, and remembered having their “pants scared off.”
I pried until they told me everything they knew about the place, which turned out to be very little: an old World War II building in Ardmore, off of I-76.
What kind of World War II building?
What kind, indeed.
A night of ghost-hunting had appealed to my adventurous heart, and plans were promptly made. There was to be an expedition lead by one of boldest adventurers of our time, Yours Truly. But before we could leave Philadelphia and find the Place in the Woods, we needed kerosene for our new and wonderful lantern. Anticipation wrung my heart as we turned into the S-Mart parking lot: hope for myself and Amy, and concern for Neil.
And what the hell was that, stepping on Amy’s heel? You’ll have to make up for it if you really want to impress her by the end of the night. She’s not easy to please. What if I got out first and opened the car door for her? She might laugh at me. So what? She’ll appreciate it, even if she doesn’t say so. I might look silly, but I’m doing it.
While I made these daring plans, the other two argued whether the lantern-bearer must walk first or last. Amy wanted to carry the thing, but did not want the responsibility of gathering cobwebs and opening mysterious doors. She seemed to be winning based on volume and vehemence, but Neil’s sources on lantern-bearing were impeccable – namely, the Mines of Moria and a certain Temple of Doom. When we parked, the argument had moved on to the conclusive name-calling stage. It was twice noted that Amy was being stupid. Amy then claimed that Neil was dumb, at which point Neil made a counter-argument concerning his grades. Fortunately for myself, this debate had distracted Amy, and she had been slow to unbuckle.
I removed the keys, left my door open, and hurried around to the passenger side. Amy sat frozen with her seatbelt in one hand, watching me and wondering. When I opened her door, she stared at my outstretched hand with a look of confusion.
“What are you doing?" she asked, and stood without my help.
Oof.
My hand dropped in crushing defeat. Suddenly, I could not remember why I had thought it would work. Neil gave me a knowing grin as we stepped onto the gum-littered walk. I trailed behind Amy, burning with fuzzy embarrassment and wondering how I could recover from such a thing.
Inside, Amy hurried to find the kerosene while Neil and I were distracted by a display case of knives. There was a shimmering steel machete in the midst of them, and I imagined myself slicing a path through tangled vines. Neil took off his puffy jacket, laid it on the display case, and leaned forward over the glass in a minor gymnastic display. How he managed it I could not tell. Passers-by smiled; register five’s lone cashier wasted a scowl in his direction. I was trying to remember my uncle’s description of that Place in the Woods, and whether we’d have to cross some wild path, when I realized that we had left Amy to find the kerosene on her own.
Damn. I’d probably need a license anyway.
“Hey,” I said, “Let’s go help Amy. Come on, come on.”
After two steps I heard an awful tearing C-C-C-RICK. Neil was standing frozen like a man who’s been stabbed but doesn’t feel it yet. A great flap of his button-down shirt was torn from its place, hanging limp to the knee. His belly bulged over the waistband, strained and pale. Around us, all the smiles had turned to stopped laughs. The lone cashier was no longer frowning. A woman in her late thirties rolled a cart full of planting pots beside us. She wore truly kind eyes and seemed to have children of her own.
“Poor thing!” she said. “See, your button caught on the frame. Are you okay? Did it scratch you?”
She was wholly sincere but just a bit too loud, and was certainly making the whole situation worse for Neil. Had I wanted to embarrass him, I might have used the exact same words and tone, po-o-o-o-r thing, while everyone looked on.
Neil was no doubt redder than when Wormwood had called him a piglet. A terrible quiet came over our end of the store. The woman had crooned so loudly and spoke so kindly, but Neil hadn’t responded. He was trying to pull on his jacket while covering his belly with one hand, moving in adrenaline-induced spasms. The woman’s face grew sad. A young girl in line to my right was giggling audibly with a hand over her mouth. I should have told her to stuff it. Han would have.
“It’s okay,” Neil said at last. He pulled the jacket tight around his waist. “I’m okay. Thank you for asking.”
The woman smiled and moved on, finally understanding that her compassion was embarrassing to a teenage boy.
“Hey! What the hell, kids? You want to help me?”
Amy was standing three aisles down with scorn in her eyes.
In the privacy of aisle ten, I had Neil lift his jacket so we could make sure the display hadn’t sliced his belly. He was unharmed, but Amy laughed openly when we told the story. He turned his face away, shifted uncomfortably, and made no retort; Amy’s expression lost all humor. She realized it was all too much for one evening, apologized, and didn't mention it again.
The cashier gave us trouble about the kerosene. You have to be eighteen to buy a dangerous thing like that, but we charmed her and showed her the old lantern. In five minutes we had our kerosene and were back in the Mustang. Yee-haw. Neil cheered up and sat in the backseat trying to unlock the secrets of the kerosene lantern, and we were finally on I-76 heading northwest from Philadelphia. Everything was coming together.
I-76 runs beside the Schuylkill River here, and at parts the huge maples clear up and reveal the river to the east. You sometimes find kayakers riding rapids in the other direction, but this late the Schuylkill was dark and could only be seen in gleams of moonlight. Here, the entire world is the maples, the river, and the night sky. You seem to be heading deep into the woods, when in fact Philadelphia is just east over the river and Ardmore is just west beyond the trees.
Amy was “co-pilot,” shuffling through maps beside me.
“What’s next, Amy?”
“Uh. Exit 337 toward Gladwyne.”
“I thought it was for Hollow.”
“I’m just reading the thing, Dante.”
We found Exit 337 in a few minutes. It branched right and descended toward the Schuylkill, passing the Flat Rock Dam. The exit ended in a four-way intersection of tiny roads where all we could hear was Flat Rock roaring in the distance. To our left, Hollow passed under I-76 and climbed into the Gladwyne area. To the right was a fence and a railroad line. Our path took us straight ahead, where the road bent right, under a railroad bridge, and dipped closer to the river before continuing north. This is River Road, flanked on the left by tracks and on the right by a short span of trees out to the shore. All of this was washed in a brilliant moonlight that I considered a sign of good fortune.
River Road came to a place where a thin arm of the Schuylkill reached out into the hillside, calling for two bridges – one for the railroad. The place was beautiful. The river was lit in moonlight, no longer just a sound in the distance, and the maples and reeds grew so far out that they seemed to be taking a swim. Our path took us left, however, under the railroad bridge and along the Schuylkill’s winding arm.
Now we climbed into a country where nothing could be seen but trees. The Schuylkill’s arm quickly wandered off and faded away, leaving us with no souvenir of civilization. The ground was sunken and the maples towered so high on both sides that the sky looked like a distant canyon between cliffs of green. This is Mill Creek.
“Amy what’s next?”
“Right on Calhoun.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Neil. Can you sit back? You’re breathing on my ear.”
“Sorry!” Neil sat back and immediately leaned forward again. “We’re close now, huh?”
“Yep.”
“Look at this place,” he said. “It’s perfect. This forest is haunted up the butt.”
Mill Creek grew narrower. To the left, the forest fell and a guard rail hugged the side of the road. To our right, the hill rose out of sight; tumblings of leaves and rocks encroached into our lane. We all watched for street signs.
“What the hell was that?”
We had just passed a small climbing road and a sign that left me scowling, confused.
“Was that Calhoun?” Amy was turned halfway around in her seat, staring back.
“I saw it too.” Neil spoke in monotone. He had his cheek pressed up against the window and was breathing a patch of fog onto it. “It said Asylum.”
“What the hell?” Amy hugged her ribs as if she was cold. “Was that it?”
“No way!” I said. “This place isn’t an asylum. It’s from World War II.”
“Yeah,” Neil said. “An asylum from World War II. There aren’t any streets named Asylum. We have to go back and look.”
“That’s real creepy,” Amy said. “But he’s right. We have to go look.”
I turned around and pulled into the mouth of that tiny road. The car tilted as we all leaned to get a look at the sign. It read “ASYLUM ST” in bold black letters.
“That’s not even real,” I said. “Look. It’s got a red background. It's supposed to say Calhoun.”
“But the letters are so neat.” Neil was wiping fog off the window in front of his face. “Look at them.”
“None of the maps say Asylum,” Amy said. She was still holding her ribs.
Asylum Street wound north up the hill into scant trees with white moonlit tops. Nobody spoke as we drove, and I pondered my role as the courageous one. How could I have been so startled by a fake sign? Surely I’d have to do better when we arrived at the Place in the Woods.
The path opened up to a lot surrounded by sparsely placed pines, in the center of which was a large structure and a small shed. Power lines had followed Asylum Street from the bottom of the hill and were wired into both. The larger was at least two stories, concrete, and shaped like a huge shoebox. On its back side was a confusing door in the second story, as if they’d built an exit to nowhere. It must have led to a catwalk that no longer existed. Along the first floor were windows, none broken, and as we drove past we could see a very faint glow within. This startled both Amy and Neil, and a panicked argument had ensued by the time I parked.
“Hush up!” I said. “Listen. This is exactly how my uncle described the place, so I guess this is it. It’s kept in order by the city of Ardmore. There are guards on the weekends, the windows are replaced now and then, and some of the lights are kept on at all times.”
Here I was interrupted by Neil. “What? How do you know there’s no guards right now?”
“Do you see any cars?” I asked.
“Maybe they live here.”
“Do you see any cars?”
“Maybe they bicycle up from Gladwyne!”
“Shut up,” I said. “Anyway, he said the lights are bad, so bring all the flashlights and the lantern too. And also, that sign was fake. This place isn’t an asylum!”
Like my uncle had told me, it was kept at bare working order. The forest was trying to reclaim the place; leaves layered the floor and creepers covered the concrete walls. It was altogether wild, but the moon lit the place as if she were on our side.
Neil ended up with the kerosene lantern, forced to walk in front, and Amy held her tiny keychain flashlight. I carried the Maglite on a shoulder. We paused and shared a deep breath before the heavy double doors of that Place in the Woods. My Mustang’s engine clicked as it cooled behind us.
“What’s the plan?” Amy asked.
“We’re gonna split up and look for the stairwell,” I said. “Just shout when you find it.”
She stared at me with words on her tongue.
I laughed. “I’m just kidding. We’ll stick together. Watch the floor for anything sharp. Uncle said the place is a mess. Ready?”
“Hell yeah,” she said.
“Yep.” Neil seemed eager to get inside. I began to think our worries were misplaced.
The front doors were unlocked, but were heavy and poorly aligned to the frame. It took the three of us to get them unstuck. Beyond stretched a narrow hallway so long that it must have spanned the entire building. Tarnished tin-cover lights hung from the ceiling about every eight feet, all the way down. Black openings gaped on either side here and there, unevenly spaced. The floor was made of tiles, many cracked and rising as if the earth fought to return to its natural shape.
“s**t,” Amy said.
Stride in! Stride in, you fool!
It was less than a second, but felt like a painful minute in which my legs refused to obey. The hallway seemed to have its own opinion of my presence; I was unwanted and could not disobey this stark, unfriendly character. Then to its great disapproval, my left foot raised, sluggish like a shuttle launch, and came down on the soiled tiles. I aimed the Maglite down the hall. The tiles and walls were mottled with mold in places, and a few of the tin lights flickered. Some lights were out completely, leaving vivid patches of darkness. We were a few paces inside when Amy stopped.
“Oh my god,” she said, “Why are they flickering?”
“This place is just old,” I said. “You alright?”
Here I ventured to put a hand on her shoulder.
“I’m fine!” she said, and shrugged the hand away. I knew she didn’t mean anything by it; I had threatened her pride.
The two of us were startled by a stressed “What?” from Neil. His voice flew down the hall and returned in strangely split echoes. He was staring at the wall to our left, where large faded letters read “Asylum L-3” in a messy burgundy. Silence came as we each mentally coped with the development.
Neil spoke first. “That’s not blood.”
The paint had a rusty and sickly look.
I quickly agreed. “No, of course not. And this isn’t an asylum. This is from stupid kids coming in here and writing that. Stupid kids. Writing stuff like that. Stupid.”
“Why does it say L-3?” Amy asked. “Level three? Does the place go underground, Dante?”
“No. My uncle never said anything about that,” I said. “It’s just graffiti. Who cares? I don’t give a s**t.”
Neil gave me a sideways glance; I knew my shaken courage could break his nerves. I took a long step forward and turned.
“We’re not going to turn back and go home just because of some graffiti, are we?”
“No sir,” Neil said.
“Hell no,” Amy said. “We drove all the way up Schully for this.”
Expertly done.
I put my free hand on the nape of Neil's neck to have him walk beside me, but some bold courage came over him, and he hurried to march in front. Amy fell in to take his place, and I was soon distracted by the brushing of our shoulders. Shadows of the lantern’s glass guards swung across the hall as we went.
It was less a journey down the hallway, and more a trip from light to light; we did not admit it, but our pace slowed under the tin-cover lights and quickened in the shadows between. Amy clutched her flashlight to her chest but did not turn it on.
The walls were concrete, chipped and flaking in many places; steel rebar poked through the ruined archways. These openings haunted us most. Moonlight filtered through the windows and drew vague shapes, but the hallway lights were too weak for any real illumination. The unhappy result was a series of rooms filled with the silhouettes we all feared as children. Everything becomes the limb of a monster – crooked wire arms and reaching three-fingered hands. A hanging coat becomes a cloaked thing, standing, watching; it wants you to come closer, just a bit closer, and it will take you, and you will be cloaked too. A shine in glass becomes an eye, and it moves as you move because it is paying you close attention. It watches because it is hungry and it hates you. Every childhood horror manifests in a shape of its choosing, and takes up residence there, grinning at you.
Now I could feel my companions growing tense and hesitant. Neil’s posture was sick with reluctance. Shreds of his shirt dangled from beneath his coat and down to the knee, and he walked with his free hand stuck to his side. Amy shrank away from the walls, leaning against me – though I feared not deliberately. I began to wonder if my apprehension was as obvious as theirs. I tried to stand straighter, walk bolder, and then by some miracle or wonderful fate, Amy’s hand brushed mine once, twice, and then held firm. Our fingers curled through each other’s and for a small moment it seemed that all darkness was trivial. The three of us seemed to have a shared but unspoken goal. At the very end of this hall was a single door, old and stripped of paint. It was the only door we could reach without crossing into those dark and unfriendly rooms.
The idle mind is either evil or mischievous, and it sometimes knows exactly which thought would cause you disaster at the moment, and it sometimes forces that thought upon you. Here, a fourth of the way down the hall, I suddenly remembered a campfire story from my childhood. I had heard it from a cousin during the holiday season when I was only nine, and I remember everyone's delight with my terrified reaction. The story itself I had mostly forgotten, but in it was a poem that had frightened its way into good memory. Now, as we travelled the hall, the poem would not leave my mind. The complete text reads like this:
I am not the one of tooth and bone who hunts you in your dreams.
I am living in the waking world and want for you to see me.
When you find my footprints in the dark, you’ll know that you must follow.
And when you hear my screams, you’ll learn to hate and live like me.
In the dark I burn to know that you’re so far my child.
I love you so; should you refuse I’ll let your heart stop beating.
If you follow me it won’t be long until your heart is black
and need not beat again.
The ghost of this song had not returned for years, but now it clung and clawed at my courage. Amy held my hand as if she were hanging from a cliff. We shuffled on in a little huddle, and to me every simple pattern in the concrete debris began to look like footprints leading here or there. Unwelcome thoughts chanted, you’ll know that you must follow. And when we crossed beneath the first of the flickering lights I imagined a hundred burning hands reaching from the black archways ahead, all mouthlessly whispering, I love you so.
Then the light above our heads went out. Neil yelped, Amy screamed. Everyone was frozen for an instant, and then everyone was rushing down the hall in shared panic. It didn’t matter that a dozen other lights remained; the maze was filled with a cacophony of echoed screams, shrieks, and scuffing of shoes. I couldn't convince myself that all these echoes were ours. They were warped, sinister and foreign. Others were here. My heart burned to run ahead and leave my two friends, but not all my wits had been scared out yet. Even at that moment I was congratulating myself on grounds of great heroism. In my head, I was kicking that far door off its hinges and ushering my friends to safety. There would be much praise and admiration.
But those thoughts gradually died and gave way to a louder voice – a lonely and evil voice. And when you hear my screams you’ll learn to hate and live like me. And when you hear my screams you’ll learn to hate and live like me. Hear my screams.
Should you refuse I’ll let your heart stop beating.
Fierce rays burned up through my chest, and I could not help but fear my heart would stop. In every black doorway was a sad face, beckoning.
Neil was huffing, running with the lantern swinging wild in one hand. Amy ran beside me, eyes fixed forward. Nobody spoke. The door with the flaking paint was close now. All our minds were shouting the same plea: Outside. Please take us outside. Just let us the hell out of here so we can breathe a minute!
Neil reached it first. We had to skid to a halt behind him. He yanked the handle and it gave way to pitch blackness and obscure movement. Neil screamed, released the lantern, and before our kerosene antique hit the floor, I could see that the door was opening itself.
The lantern went out. At the same time, Amy screamed and we both tumbled backwards; my Maglite bounced like a cork. I rose my gaze, scrambled to my feet, and saw in the faint light a thing of wiry evil hands. It came down upon Neil with malicious and deliberate intent. Surely it was singing along to our chorus of screams.
I had already risen to my feet and taken two steps away, tugging Amy’s hand, when Neil shrieked, “Run! Get out!”
He was wrestling with the thing, back arched, arms outstretched desperately, breathing loud wheezes down the hall.
The Maglite was in my hand again, but before I pulled Amy to safety I needed one fair look at the demon who would take my friend away. I rose the light to my shoulder and held in a great breath.
The thing was an old brass coat rack with five little silver bells dangling from its twisted arms. An illusion seemed to fade from all our eyes. As Neil struggled to push the thing aside, and as Amy ran to help him, I became confused and lost in my own thoughts. I had little recollection of the past three seconds, and could not remember why I had started to flee. What thoughts had been in my head? None, it seemed. There was no consolation in understanding.
I am a coward?
And now that was the only thought in my mind. It had all the room it needed to echo around and around and around.
I still had not spoken. Neil was doubled over, heaving and chucking up the macaroni and cheese from earlier that evening. Amy stood beside him with a hand on his back. In between Neil’s heaves they laughed together at the situation, breathless but smiling. He told us he had almost blacked out from hyperventilation while wrestling with the coat rack.
Then Amy turned her head and sent me a gaze which struck me hard enough to buckle my knees. Whether she meant it to carry a meaning I don’t know, but that gaze said, I have not simply forgotten about those three seconds – those few steps.
I was probably not the only one who had just learned that Dante was a coward.
Where were you planning to run? the gaze said. Did you think I would abandon our friend too? Perhaps it is all a joke now, but you are a coward.
The kerosene lantern was unharmed; the fall had only stifled the flame. They left the spot where the coat-rack lay, Amy cringing, both snickering, and started down the hall together. I followed in an odd stupor. Amy’s hand was on Neil’s shoulder. She kept asking if he was alright; he kept saying he’d be fine. Her hand was no longer in mine.
A dangerous brooding monologue began in my head.
How is it possible to be a coward while never meaning to be? How can I not have known? How can I not have had control? It doesn’t make sense. It isn’t fair! I never decided to run away. I don’t even remember what happened. It isn't fair!
This frustration and self-loathing boiled up until all reasonable thought stopped. My mind went into a state of seizure and it all came pouring out as one terrible, entirely thoughtless action. I took a long step forward and gave Neil a heavy kick with the boot of my right foot.
Waist thrust forward, head rocked back, and arms splayed, Neil’s feet left the ground as if he were trying to belly-flop onto the tiles.
And click! I was given a mental photograph of what I had done, and it would forever stay on the mantle of my mind. What had I done to Neil?
Neil, who wrestled the beast to save us.
While this unfolded in slow motion, Amy was turning her head until I could see one wide, frightened eye. When that eye met mine, she let out a shrill yelp. Neil slammed down onto the tiles just in front of the door. Amy fell back and raised her hands as if to ward off an attacker. I heard the smallest sob from her hair-veiled face and my shame was complete.
Neil struggled to his hands and knees, trying to gulp air into suddenly empty lungs.
Amy pushed hair from her face and said, “Dante?”
I was confused. There was fear in her eyes and a question in her tone, as if she did not know me.
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “It’s me.”
“From the corner of my eye you looked so dark. Like a big shadow. I thought something else was here. Let’s get back to the car. Please.”
"It's just me here," I said as I helped Neil up. "I'm so sorry. Really. Sorry."
With a sad face he brushed down his coat. “Why’d you kick me?”
“Yeah,” Amy said, her wits returning. “What the hell was that?”
I had been brewing an excuse ever since Neil’s belly touched the floor.
“I’m so sorry, Neil. I saw a huge spider on your pants. And my heart’s beating so fast from earlier. I don’t know why I kicked you like that. So sorry.”
This made Neil dance around and shake his clothes. Nobody spoke as we left the building, and Amy's face did not reveal whether she believed me. Neil's face seemed pained.
Outside, the Mustang's engine was still cooling. We had been in that hallway no more than five minutes.
From the driver's door, I looked back at the Place in the Woods. We had left the entrance wide open. I stared at the row of ugly tin lights, and vaguely I could see the coat rack spilled onto the floor like an insignificant thing. The place terrified me.
"I'm sorry, Neil," I said, and turned.
He had been staring along with me, hand on the car door, and now his eyes refocused.
"It's okay," he said, and got into the backseat.
As I started the car, the moon came out from behind some mass of cloud and washed the premises in pale white.
"I forgive you, Dante," Neil said. Then he laughed. "I was so scared."
"But you fought the monster!" said Amy, and laughed too.
Neil flushed. He never took compliments very well.
"I guess you never know what you got in you," he said.
