Rot, page 6
In the kitchen now. The door to the utility room’s open; guess Toby wouldn’t have got out if it was actually closed. But I didn’t open it… I’ll light a candle from the kitchen’s ‘Knick-knack’ drawer. No way am I going in there without seeing what might be lurking around the corner, or the floor or ceiling for that matter. I just want my Toby back, that’s all.
It’s colder in the utility room. It must be the coldest part of the house; frost’s forming everywhere. If I was still naive, I’d have assumed it was because the cat flap was letting the wind in or something. I’m anything but naive now.
I’ve just kicked one of those dead frogs across the floor like a hockey puck. There’s got to be at least ten here, all parcelled differently, each one sparkling in a delicate light frost that glints back the orange glow of my candle. It’d be beautiful, if it weren’t so sick.
I can’t find the back door key. Poor Toby, he won’t stop howling and wailing outside – it sounds like he’s in serious pain.
His terrible cries are killing me – I could’ve sworn I knew where the key was; but, they’re just not there. It’s just another pissing game, isn’t it! I’m certain it’s hidden the key – certain of it!
Shaking the bag of his favourite biscuit and calling him in for dinner seems my only option. This almost always works; just not tonight apparently. I guess he knows full well what’s in here with me. He knows it’s not safe. To be honest, if he were a bit smarter, he’d know he was way better off out there – just cut his losses and go.
As painful as it was, I got down on my knees, but not before catching the big toenail of my gout riddled left foot in the groove of the tiled floor; it must have slipped somehow and scraped down into a grouted gully – It’s ripped the nail right back. Christ the pain’s so intense I’m amazed I haven’t blacked out.
I can feel the nail’s all loose with the tips of the fingers on my left hand. But I can’t bring myself to look at the damage with my candle. God, it hurts so, so damn much!
A distracting wind has rattled the cat flap door and reminded me of why I was down here in the first place. Biting my lip and taking the pain, I’ve managed to peek through the small doorway of the cat flap; it’s hard to make out anything out there the storms so bad. I Just can’t see properly.
I’ve noticed that same sticky, tacky substance is on the cat flap; the light from the candle’s not helping much. I think the flap’s broken too. It lifts too easily, like the catch is somehow broken. There’s so much snow coming down. Surely with a blizzard this bad the house should be buried up to the chimney by now.
I can just about make out through the falling snow, yes, it’s Toby. It looks like he’s shivering on the opposite side of the patio, between the dustbins.
I’ve never, the whole time I’ve known him, seen him look so scared and desperate. His eyes are haunting and so wide, unblinking.
My eyes are adjusting to the darkness now, but I’m sure, or as sure as I ever am these days, that I saw something shuffle behind Toby. Whatever it is, I think it had eyes; yet if they were eyes, they were horrifyingly lifeless and as grey as the distant snowflakes in the storm. Whatever it is out there, Toby hasn’t sensed it. I can’t be too certain I saw it myself, its form was a silhouette of twigs and thick fur and It shifted into obscurity so fast I’m not sure I saw anything at all. I can feel the fear, though; I can feel it in me, swelling up and that’s enough of an early warning sign it’s nearby. Regardless, Toby comes first not me and reaching my arm through the flap into the chaos of the freezing storm, I’m certain he’ll come to me. He knows I’m safe; however, doing this has almost completely obscured my view of Toby.
At last, I can just about feel him brushing his cold, wet body against my arm; although my arm’s practically numb with the icy wind stabbing at it so much, I can barely feel a thing below the shoulder.
He’s slippery. But I have him!
Poor Toby’s so limp, yet his wailing is off the chart as I struggle to bring him back inside where it’s slightly warmer. He’s almost here. I can almost make him out in the flickering candlelight. He’s nearly through the flap he’s… skinned alive.
In shock I’ve fallen backwards – My boy! My poor boy! I don’t know what to do – he’s wailing so much. A high-pitched screech and he’s snatched back outsider by something, leaving the bloodstained flap banging harshly behind him.
He’s gone. In the most brutal way imaginable, he’s gone. He’s gone… He’s gone…
For hours it feels like I’ve been listening in candlelight to his dying cries outside. I just stare, trance-like and helplessly at the smeared blood turning to ice on the frame of the plastic cat flap. I think it’s all over now. It’s all quiet except for the storm. My poor boy. My poor, poor boy.
I can feel the hair on the back of my head being stroked gently, like something a caring mother would do to calm a distraught child. The strands on the back of my head are being softly parted and I can feel it touching me ever so gently down my ice-cold neck; I’ve got goosebumps again it’s so unpleasantly delicate. I’ve never been more rigid; I don’t even think I’m breathing.
Something metallic has skidded and slid along the tiled floor, pausing before the candle in the darkness near my hand. It’s the paring knife from my kitchen drawer, covered in drying blood. I can’t move. I’m sure I can feel it’s breath close to the back of my neck; it’s warm and clammy, like an old paedo’s feeling horny. Please make it stop. Make it stop!
Something’s fallen into my lap making me jump. Vaguely, I can see what it is in the dim, orange glow of the candlelight, just barely; it’s the straw-bound ball of sticky fur from the hallway.
Escape
Painfully aware of the sadistic horror that’s taken over my home, I’ve remained laying on the cold tiles of the utility room floor, as still as the dead. I don’t know what to do next – I don’t think I care anymore. In many ways, I’m more ready than ever to accept death in any form it takes now. The torturous, drawn-out murder of my sweet Toby’s the final straw. I’ve nothing left to lose; It’s killed my beautiful baby in the most horrific way imaginable. It’s nothing like the lurking fear from my childhood. Sometimes in adulthood I’d feel them watching me in the dark and maybe the most they could do was make a little noise, creak a floorboard, a door, my bed. But this one’s far, far worse and far more dangerous than I could have possibly imagined. It’s reaching into my world and testing its limits. What fate has it in store for me as it lays in wait, presumably gathering its strength. What does it want? It must gain something from this torment to be keeping me alive so long in this state of perpetual terror. It must need me to fear it; it must feed off it somehow. I wish I was strong enough to stand up to it and to take it on at its own game, somehow. But I’m too old surely and after what’s happened to Toby, my beautiful Toby, my nerves are utterly shot.
That’s probably what it wants, thinking about it; for me to give up, to roll over and give in, maybe even wants me to kill myself. But if it does, hypothetically rely on fear, then to escape it, I must logically show no fear. Is that even possible considering the reality? Can I even take that kind of punishment at my age? It’s worth a try, even if it kills me; I just want to get outside and breathe a lungful of freedom.
I have to leave. I have to leave, or die trying.
It must feel bored, as it hasn’t touched me for a while and the pungent odour of human excrement has finally slipped away. I just let it continue to touch me and gave no response; not sure what percentage of my vacancy was acting and how much was genuine shock and trauma.
Beyond the swinging, blood-stained cat flap before me, my thoughts drift with the sound of the howling storm, while I wait patiently for my moment to move. Toby has been silent for a long time now; I don’t know precisely when he stopped crying, but I’m grateful it’s finally over for him. I’ll mourn properly when this Hellish nightmare is over. If I were to mourn now, it would relish the chance to spoil the moment with its boundless cruelty, I’m sure.
The tiles are so nice and cold. Maybe I’ll die here like this, just staring at the cat flap. A layer of frost has formed over my clothes and the candle’s nearly out. Perhaps it is time to die?
Snap out of it – I need to leave.
With all my might, I’ve managed to force myself to my feet. My God – everything hurts; I’ve been there for so long. My clothes are cold and wet too; I must have wet myself at some point during it all, I’ll have to have a shower before I make my break for it. But God knows when that’ll happen. Mustn’t show fear. Don’t think, just do.
Painstakingly, I’ve hoisted myself back to full height. The memories of all the trauma I’ve just witnessed, be they true or false with what’s happened to Toby, are torturous to relive in my mind; I have to force the invasive thoughts to one side and focus on the task at hand or I’ll break down and give the thing exactly what it wants.
It hurts, but I’m making sure to walk on the outside of my left foot, so as not to aggravate my accursed, peeling toenail. It’s tricky, and the pressure on my ankle is aggravating my gout, but I think I can manage.
Carefully, I’ve scaled the utility room wall for extra support as if a weary mountaineer clinging to the side of a dangerous, windswept mountain. I must look pathetic if it’s watching.
Moving achingly slowly, even for me, I’ve eventually shuffled into the kitchen. It doesn’t help I’m holding my dying candle in my left hand as well, but it’s just so cold and dark everywhere. The snow is partly to blame for this; it’s piled up high on the small kitchen windows, reducing what little light there is in here.
Here it comes. I can smell it getting closer.
It’s blown out my candle. It’s so dark. No fear! No fear!
My eyes have adjusted and I can see an escape route; it’s not ideal, but beggars can’t be choosers, I guess. Everything here feels tainted by the entity; nothing about my house feels like home anymore. No fear!
God my toenail hurts, and coupled with the gout, it’s agony; just shuffling from the utility room door to the kitchen sink feels a step too far. Focus damn it, stop whingeing and just focus.
Lifting the latch and the lower arm of the wooden window above the kitchen sink, I expected it to simply swing open like it used to. But nothing.
Banging it hard with my palm now, and still nothing.
Please no, not when I’m so close.
The air’s become thick and oppressive as I feel it coming nearer to me; that same cold, fearful chill that’s always there when something this malevolent is shifting around in the darkness, watching; I must ignore it, I have to.
On the other side of the window, in the blizzard, a large black mass, reminiscent of the thing that hid behind the bins near Toby just dashed past with a fearsome growl, making me jump out of my skin. I wish I hadn’t, but too late, I’ve unconsciously let out a barely audible gasp; it’ll love that it’s managed to frighten me again. What the Hell is it out there? Is it the same thing that’s in here, or something else? Don’t show any emotion, and definitely don’t show fear again; but God, I feel it.
I haven’t moved a muscle since seeing the mass; my hands are still fixed statuesque five inches from the kitchen windowsill. I can’t see much of anything through the snow, but I wish to God I could see a car’s headlights pull up through this blizzard containing someone strong enough to take this thing on and rescue me. But there isn’t and there probably won’t be; there’s nothing out there but the howling snowstorm. No, this is all the demon creature, I’m sure of it; it’s everywhere, like a terminal disease, it’s inside and out.
I’m so scared, but maybe if I move…
It’s touching me again, as gently as before. I can feel it running what are perhaps its fingers over my head; they’re cold and stiff, like sharpened steel meat hooks, the point of them pressing threateningly into my soft scalp.
Don’t move an inch. It’ll get bored and leave you alone if you don’t react. No fear! No fear!
It’s moving lightly over my hair and bunching it up. I know this move; I’ve been around abusers before.
Grabbing a used saucepan from the draining board I’ve launched it into the window, smashing it open. The gush of icy fresh air, wind and light has instantly filled the room and seems to have distracted it. Taking my chance and ignoring all my pain, I’ve somewhat clumsily climbed up onto the sink.
It’s gripped my hair and memories of an old life come flooding back; in that same instant something heavy’s exploded on the wooden windowsill in front of me, forcing me to pause momentarily as sharp white flecks of porcelain erupt out in all directions, some hitting my face and hands. Confused, but not surprised I’m continuing on to the window ledge. Through it all, all of the pain and horror, I can almost taste my freedom.
Something, a mug I think, has hit my right ear with such force it’s knocked me sideways, nearly knocking me off the countertop. It really hurts – my ear’s throbbing; with the briefest of checks and natural light, I can tell I’m bleeding from somewhere near my right eye. More crockery’s being hurled at me now – this is insane. Shielding myself as best as I can and doing my best to ignore the onslaught, I’m successfully managing to edge my way back towards the open sink window.
In amongst the ferocious barrage, something acutely hard and painful has hit my right hand as I’m reaching for salvation and my God it hurts.
A bloody steak knife! A bloody steak knife has pinned my hand to the wooden windowsill; I’ve no time to waste acknowledging it and yelling with a wild rage, I’ve wrenched it out as I stubbornly continue forward with greater determination than before. I can feel the sharp wind on my face and taste the bracing icy air as it tries to freeze my lungs. I don’t care one jot that I’ll probably die of exposure out there; better out there than in here, I say. For a moment I swear I saw that black mass run past the window again; I’ll worry about it if and when the time comes.
My moment’s hesitation’s cost me. The thing’s grabbed a bunched mass of my hair from the back with what feels like all its might and wrenched me off the countertop.
I feel sick.
From the bump on the back of my head, I can only assume I hit the floor hard enough to be knocked unconscious, but not hard enough to die unfortunately.
That smell, it’s nearby; doesn’t it ever get tired or bored? What does it want?
Water’s overflowing from the sink and seems to only just be touching my bare feet. It must be why I’m waking up. For some reason the sink tap is in my left hand. I must have held on to it to steady myself and broken it off in the fall.
The kitchen’s a state; the floor’s littered with broken cups, plates, bowls and various other pieces of cutlery, and something else, but what? God, it reeks in here.
I thought my body ached before, but this is another level. My right eye is sore; I feel like I must have been kicked and punched, or something while I was unconscious. As for my right hand, I can barely move it, let alone close it. Raising my right hand to get a better look at the knife wound, I’ve found it’s covered in thick, brown excrement – it’s vile! I’ve no idea where it’s all come from. But it’s smeared all over me and from what I can tell, the rest of the kitchen too. Anyone who might discover me now would quite rightly believe me a complete lunatic. Who in their right mind could believe the story I have to tell?
I’m surprised it didn’t attack me further as I painstakingly dragged myself across the floor to the cupboard under the sink; I doubt I’ll smell it coming since the whole house wreaks of shit now. It’s getting worse, the abuse. It’s escalating. It’s going to kill me soon, I can feel it.
With the howling rage of the storm outside ever present, I managed to calmly dress my wounds on the floor using the First Aid Kit I have under the sink; a small mercy I suppose is that the box I keep it in is waterproof. The damage to the tap above me has caused a leak to a pipe joint underneath. Falling instinctively back on the many years I spent as a nurse, I’ve managed to clean and disinfect the wounds properly; as well as dress them pretty well, considering I did it all with very shaky hands. The knife wound hurts the most; it went right through. But cleaning out all the shit feels way, way worse. It’ll be a while before I can use it. Christ it hurts.
It’s getting dark again.
Tiredly glancing one last time around my devastated kitchen, I exhaustedly got up off the kitchen floor, cradling my right bandaged hand and wearily made my way upstairs; I smell like the thing. The whole house does now.
I’ve paused at the top of the staircase. I can feel it watching me again, as if it’s been scrutinising my every laboured step from the kitchen. I think it’s behind me, up in the ceiling like the venomous spider it is. But I don’t really care at this point; I’ll just keep walking. Somehow, for reasons known only to itself, it’s left me alone, for now; it’s letting me get to the spare room and, finally, into my bed.
The Little Things
I hate throwing up. Must be the concussion kicking in. The lump on the back of my head’s the size of a boiled egg. God, I’m exhausted. Did I sleep or just pass out? I can’t be sure. It’s night time though. How long have I been out?
I need a wash; I stink of shit.
It’s dark here as always. Even when it’s light, it still feels dark; it’s making me lose touch with time and reality, I think. I can’t remember for the life of me what the day is. The storm though, like the darkness, is an unwelcome constant.
My body feels black and blue; every way I turn, something hurts or clicks.
I need the loo, now. I could save myself the pain of being noticed by it and just wet the bed. It’s fucking tempting. No, I refuse to sink to its level. It’ll probably attack me here anyway given time. It’s probably why I’ve woken up, thinking about it. The thing’s never too far away.
