The Nothing Room, page 1
part #1 of The Nothing Room Series
The Nothing Room
By Cherie Mitchell
All Rights Reserved © 2019 Cherie Mitchell
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter One
There is a room inside my house that no one ever goes into.
Most of the time, we pretend it isn’t there.
If any visitors to the house ask about the locked door, or perhaps they might rattle the handle as they walk by, we tell them it’s a storeroom full of junk before we hurriedly hustle them on. We call it the nothing-room and to us, that’s the safest way to deal with it. We pretend it’s nothing because nothing never hurt nobody, as my grandfather used to say.
Nothing does not exist therefore nothing can’t hurt us. Or so we tell ourselves.
My bedroom shares a wall with the nothing-room. I wish it wasn’t like that but I can’t do much about it because there isn’t enough space in the house to allow us to close off two entire rooms. If a realtor listed this house, the optimistic sales blurb would boldly announce Four-bed family home! as if that were really true. But it isn’t a four-bed family home. It’s a three-bed house with a nothing-room included and any family but ours would be mad to consider living here. No realtor would ever waste their time in listing it anyway. Everyone knows what this house is.
Sometimes at night, when my parents and my little brother and sister are sleeping, I stare at the wall that I share with the nothing-room and I imagine that I can see right through it. It’s been at least five years since I caught a glimpse of what lies inside but I can remember what I saw as if it was burned on my eyeballs. A permanent tattoo of fiery terror, a stamp of horror once seen that can never again be unseen. My cross to bear. Isn’t that what people call stuff like that?
My little brother and sister have never seen inside the nothing-room. They barely notice it’s there. They were born after we last locked the door and I’m glad about that. I’m very protective of Timmy and Megan. They’re too sweet and innocent to know what I know. I’d fight to the death to stop them knowing the true circumstances of our life and I mean that.
I demanded that my parents paint the shared wall in my room black. I stamped my feet and I howled and I hollered. They refused at first, suggesting that a bright, lively color was more appropriate and naturally it would be more cheerful, but in the end they gave in. I knew they would. They started giving in a lot after I saw inside the nothing-room and they’ve never really stopped. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to have rules like other kids but hey, who am I kidding? My parents know as well as I do that I would never dare to do anything bad after what I saw in the nothing-room. So yeah, I got my black painted wall without needing to kick up too much more of a fuss. I added some gold colored hooks set out in rows and it’s nearly perfect.
I’m looking at it now, the black wall that I share with the nothing-room. It’s a little hard to avoid it. I mean, it’s right there. I can hear the sounds as well, even over the constant thump and whine of my music. I never turn off the music in my room. Not ever. It helps a bit to disguise the sounds but I think my ears are too used to listening out for them now. I don’t think I can ever get away from those sounds, even when I’m grown and I don’t live here anymore.
If that ever happens.
The smell is pretty bad too, that rotten meat smell of the nothing-room that edges its way into every little crack. Even after Grandma bought me some fancy plug-in air fresheners online that cost her a fortune and are supposed to ‘conceal all odors’. It’s supposed to make my room smell like a day at the spa or a mountain garden but I don’t actually know what either of those things smell like. It’s kinda nice, but I can still smell the nothing-room through all that scent-y, flowery, fake disguise.
This used to be Grandma and Grandad’s house. Before they died, I mean. Well, Grandad died first. He always was a curious old bastard. I didn’t make that up, I swear! That’s what Dad calls him. A curious old bastard. A curious dead old bastard now, I guess.
Grandma died in the living room a couple of months after buying me the air freshener. Not that those two events are related. Dad said she died of a broken heart but I know he’s only saying it to make me feel better. I know the nothing-room killed her, just like it killed Grandad. Or at least, the thought of what’s inside the nothing-room was what killed them.
We couldn’t bury my grandparents in the cemetery. They’re in the nothing-room now, with the other undead. Although that might be an oxy-moron. I love that word. I think people should use it more often. Anyway, the oxy-moron I’m talking about is me saying that we didn’t bury Grandma and Grandad in a cemetery. The entire house is a cemetery if you want to get picky about it. Grandad, the curious old bastard that he was, ignored the warnings of the rest of the people in this no-hope town and built his house on the site of an old cemetery. Said it was all just superstitious nonsense and he’d build his house wherever he wanted to.
Turned out it wasn’t just superstitious nonsense. Turns out the nothing-room itself is sitting right on top of what used to be a Satanist’s grave. Some evil old devil worshipper from the 1700s. It also turns out that Grandad wasn’t just a curious old bastard. He was also horribly stupid. Why didn’t he listen? He could’ve saved this family a whole lot of sorrow if he'd taken the advice of people who knew better than he did about things he could never understand.
Anyway, it’s my bedtime now. I’ll leave the light on and the music on. And I’ll hang my crosses from their hooks on the black-painted wall. It’s part of my nightly routine and I guess I’ve grown to like it. It makes me feel safer and it helps me sleep.
Feeling safe and sleeping well is everything when you live in a house like ours.
Chapter Two
We’re tiptoeing around a lot today and we’re using our inside voices. The entire house is quiet, except for the nothing-room of course. The nothing-room is never quiet. Those things behind that locked door don’t know how to be still or quiet.
Megan is sick. I already told you about Megan. She’s my little sister. She’s only four and she wants to marry Baby Shark when she grows up. She wears a blue princess dress on top of her regular clothes every day and she knows all the words to the Frozen song. And all the words to Baby Shark too, unfortunately.
Anyway, she’s sick. It hurts my stomach to see her pale face and her dead eyes. Reminds me too much of what I saw inside the nothing-room. I asked Mom if she’s gonna be okay but she just shook her head and put her finger in front of her lips to shush me. She told me to go wait in the living room with Timmy and Dad but my feet and butt don’t want to sit still today. I keep walking up and down the hallway, up and down, up and down, until Dad yells at me to find something to do. I am about to tell him I am doing something but then I think of Megan’s dead eyes and dry, cracked lips and I think maybe it’s best not to say anything.
So now I’ve come back to my bedroom with its black painted wall that it shares with the nothing-room, my room with the light always on and the music always thumping. The rotten meat smell is stronger today, blocking out the fake flower smell from Grandma’s air freshener. That rotten smell is like its own wall. You can get over it or around it or past it. It’s a big, solid stinky thing and today it’s taking up too much space in my room.
I decide it might be a good day to change my room around. Not that I can change it much. I always make sure my bed is as far away from the black-painted room as possible. It’s bad enough that I have to share the wall with the nothing-room. I don’t want to sleep pressed up against it as well.
I like my bed. It’s got a bedhead with shiny gold knobs on it and the mattress is covered with an American flag. That curious old bastard Grandad gave it to me after him and Dad had an argument about whether it was sacrilege to have it on my bed. It’s not a real flag. The curious old bastard ordered it from some place in China, probably the same place where Grandma bought the air freshener, and one of the star-spangles is missing. The one in the bottom left corner. I like to think of some little Chinese worker, maybe
There’s some kind of disturbance going on through the wall in the nothing-room. I stare at the black wall, imagining that I can see the shape of fists and feet and other bits bumping into my room. Like a baby when it’s inside it’s mother’s stomach and decides to stretch out it’s hand or foot. I saw Timmy doing that when he was in Mom’s belly. She lifted up her top and showed me and it gave me a hot, itchy, scratchy feeling to see that tiny little hand behind her skin. Ugh.
Timmy is still our baby. He’s three-years-old and he doesn’t talk much. He has big, round eyes that stare at everything as if the whole world is a surprise and he lets Megan do his talking for him. He can talk but it’s like he doesn’t want to waste the effort. He loves my flag bed but I don’t let him come in here too much. It’s too close to the nothing-room and I want to protect him from that.
Anyway, I want to change my room around ‘cos I’m bored with how it looks. I grab hold of the end of my bed and drag it but the legs on the wooden floorboards make more noise than I thought they would. The things in the nothing-room get louder and Dad yells down the hall for me to Quit it! Mom sticks her head around the door and says Can you not? in a draggy, tired voice.
I’m mad that both my parents seem to have forgotten that they usually let me away with stuff but then I remember that Megan is sick today. I know they’re scared for her. I’m scared for her too but that’s why I’m trying to keep myself busy. I give up on moving my bed and sit down on the stripes of the flag instead. The problem is, we can’t get a doctor to come to the house. No one comes to the house anymore.
I know I told you before that visitors try to open the door to the nothing-room and we tell them it’s a storeroom and hustle them on, but I lied when I said that. I try not to lie but sometimes these things happen. I actually think lies happen a lot more than people let on. I read somewhere that most people tell five lies a day and I think I believe that. Even if the lies aren’t said out loud, people lie to themselves an awful lot.
On the nights when I can’t sleep because of the things in the nothing-room making too much noise, I lie awake and imagine that all the lies people ever told are flapping around their heads like brown and black moths. Words they spat out and can never take back but they can’t get rid of them, either. Flappy, flying proof of their deceptions following them around forever, immune to bug spray or fly swats.
Anyway, the honest truth is no one has been to our house for years. No one alive, that is.
They couldn’t get in even if they wanted to.
Chapter Three
Megan is still sick.
Mom hasn’t moved from beside my little sister’s bed all day and I just heard her tell Dad that she’s not doing the grocery run with him this afternoon.
This means things are getting real bad for Megan. Mom never says no to the grocery run. She usually loves getting out of the house, even if it is just to collect the groceries and even if it is an inconvenience to go. I thought something was up when I saw it was getting darker outside and they hadn’t left yet. You can’t ever do the grocery run after dark.
Dad comes to ask me if I’ll go with him instead and I know I shouldn’t be excited because this is only happening ‘cos Megan is sick. But I am excited. This is the first time I’ve been allowed to go on the grocery run since Mom caught food poisoning about a year ago.
Well, Dad said it was food poisoning but I know he was telling lies. I didn’t have to even look for the flutter of brown and black moths around his head to know he was lying. Mom didn’t have food poisoning. No one screams that much from food poisoning. I know she got sick ‘cos one of the things in the nothing-room stuck it’s tentacles or strings or whatever you want to call them out under the door and touched Mom’s foot when she passed by.
But Mom and Dad don’t know I know about that. Don’t tell them I told you, okay? I think it will just make them worry more, especially with what’s going on with Megan.
Timmy is watching me with his big, round eyes. He’s scared too, I can tell, but he won’t say anything. Timmy hasn’t said anything since Megan got sick. Not that he ever talked too much before that ‘cos he always let Megan talk for him, but he’s even quieter now.
I ask Dad what will happen with Timmy while we’re gone. Dad’s voice is cross but I know he doesn’t mean to be cross at me. He says that Timmy will sit with Mom and Megan while we’re gone and to hurry up and go get my protective gear on.
I haven’t worn my protective gear for a long time and I’m a bit worried that it won’t fit. I don’t want to tell Dad that though ‘cos he’s got enough on his mind.
Anyway, I manage to squeeze into it even though my ears hurt where the helmet presses too tight and my toes are sticking painfully into the ends of the boots. The zip on my top is open under my vest too, but Dad can’t see that and I’m not gonna tell him. He takes Timmy into Megan’s room and I hear him talking to Mom while I wait by the door to the garage. This is so exciting! If my protective gear wasn’t so tight and uncomfortable I’d jump up and down on the spot.
“Ready?” Dad’s eyes are black behind the glare of the glass faceplate on his protective helmet. “You know what to do, don’t you?”
I don’t say anything. I don’t think I can speak right now from all the excitement. But I do know what to do and I won’t let him down.
Dad starts to explain the plan anyway and I pretend to listen even though I know it so well. I know that Mom already ordered the groceries online, just like we order everything we need online, and I know that the courier van has left the grocery order at the mailbox at the end of the drive like he does every Friday. I also know that we urgently need to get the medicine that Mom ordered for Megan along with the rest of the groceries. Yeah, yeah, Dad, I know all of this.
I know the next part too, but he’s still talking when all I want to do is go, go, go. The driveway from our house to the mailbox is long, maybe a full mile. Grandad made it like that when he built this stupid house up here on this stupid old cemetery hill. The curious old bastard went ahead and built it despite everyone telling him not to, but there’s no point in grumbling about that now. It is what it is.
Dad has stopped talking now and he’s looking at me like I’m supposed to answer him. I shrug my shoulders to show him I didn’t hear what he said and he does this big sigh noise that bounces off the glass faceplate and back into his face. That makes me laugh. I can’t help it.
Dad shakes his head and pushes at my shoulder to steer me into my bedroom. “Get the crosses,” he says. “Six should do it.”
I choose the six biggest gold crosses from my box beside the bed. I store them here during the day and I hang them from their hooks on the painted black wall at night. The things in the nothing-room are worse at night and the crosses help, just like the crosses will help us now when we drive down to the mailbox.
Dad has his hand on the handle of the door leading to the garage when I come back out of my room. He looks like a spaceman or maybe an Arctic explorer in all his protective gear but I know it’s him under there even I can’t see his face.
He looks at the crosses as if he’s counting them to make sure I really did get six. He pulls two of them from my hand and sticks them into his vest pocket. He takes two more and holds one in each of his gloved hands. I do the same with the last two.
“You sure you’re ready?” He’s juggling one of the crosses in his fingers as he puts his hand back on the door handle.
I tighten my fingers around each of my crosses and nod, even though nodding makes the helmet pinch uncomfortably tight against my ears.
We’re finally doing this. We’re doing it for the family.
We’re doing it for Megan.
Chapter Four
I’m so frustrated and disappointed. Madder than a hornet with its stinger out.
After all the excitement and the big build-up, in the end we didn’t get to do the grocery run.
We were ready. We had our protective gear on, we had the crosses, and we knew that the groceries Mom had ordered would be waiting by the mailbox. It should have happened. But it didn’t.
