The Aftershock (Nightshade #2)

 

 

December 23, 1989

 

 

I had no clues of what would happen on that cold November night. None at all. The only reason I'm writing this is the same reason why people do many things, like confessing a crime or going on a diet - to get it out of their system. It's been fourteen years since that dreadful night and I still think about it a lot.

What happened went, as I figure, something like this.

I was in my apartment, up late trying to polish off this Arthur Scott book called The Lonely Piper, when I received a knock on my door. Now of course I didn't know if I should get up, seeing as it was past midnight, so I just sat there in my old, hard backed rocker and thought about who could be there. The knock came again, louder and more persistent this time, and so I stood up slowly, setting my Pall Mall tenderly in its tray, and walked over to the door. I had barely unlocked the second chain when this face poked through the crack, pushing the door open almost entirely, and stared me in the eyes. The man was old, though not as old as me, and wore a frayed jean jacket. His sleeves were red from what I suspected as dried blood and his face looked inhuman in the pale, dirty light of the streetlamps. His mouth was twisted in agony and his fingers clasped the doorknob like some kind of withered animal. He stuck his other arm out and pointed towards the street comer. I looked in that direction and, squinting in the soft glow, couldn't see anything other than the tall elms and other apartments.

"Help me.' he croaked, and started motioning for me to come. I had never seen this man before and I still don't know exactly why I followed him. Maybe I did it out of plain curiosity or pity and maybe not, but I did and that I can't take back. So, grabbing my old loafers and a jacket, I walked briskly after him, stopping only once to tie my shoelaces and close the door. He didn't seem to notice that I had paused and I had to run to catch up to him before he turned the corner. As we passed under a streetlight he stopped and looked at me again. He didn't say anything right then but I got a very good mental picture of his face. It was old but not yet creased with age and his forehead still held a full head of greasy, uncombed hair. His chin was short and scruffy but covered in spots with caked blood and his nose was bent slightly to the left. But his eyes were what caught and held my attention. They were a deep hazel brown and they sunk far into his head, causing his eyebrows to cover the slits almost as if they weren't even there. Those eyes held pain beyond what I have experienced, and grew heavy with it.

Then he pointed above his head and I traced the path his finger made before stopping to point at the street sign, or what was left of it. I gasped in horror at what was there, feeling the earth grey in front of me. I have never been a detective and I don't know why the man picked me but I was sure that right then I was going to die for seeing that.

 

The man was staring at me absurdly and I turned around and looked at him, forcing myself to hold back the revulsion in my gut. "Help me with this, eh? I'm helping you so come on!" I told him, causing him to stumble over to me. Together we lifted the kid up again, striving now to stop from vomiting. We had almost got him to the top when I just couldn't hold it back any longer. I turned my head around and let it all come out, stifling the man beside me to give up his fight and do the same. But this time the kid never slid back down, which was too bad because I would have left if he had, so we both started lifting again. I could tell when the boy was ready to fall on us because all of the pressure that had been storing up in his rectum while we pulled him off, increasing as we lifted him, shot out with a bang. I jumped back, expecting him to blow apart or something, and almost ran away when he fell off and hit the ground with a low, hollow thud. I'll never forget that sound. Never.

But we couldn't quit now.

So I looked down at him, thinking about what I should do. I don't quite remember how long I stared at his face before realizing that there was something in his mouth. From where I was it looked like a note. Maybe a warning and just that thought scared me shitless. I leaned over and looked in, not daring to put my fingers into that dark hole, until I finally recognized what was in there.

They were mushrooms. Big, ugly mushrooms that still, under the heavy scent of blood, smelt of soil. I turned my head so that I could see the man that had brought mehere but he wasn't there. At that moment I had the scariest, most absurd thought. What if he wasn’t even real? What if the man I had seen was just a figrnent of my imagination?

But I pushed those ugly thoughts away from my conscious mind and slowly looked around me, praying that the man would still be there. Then another thought probed my skull, searching for an answer. What if he just left? Mat if he was the murderer and left to call the cops on me?

Then I would be in trouble. They would frame me as the killer and I would be canned. But in my soul I knew that the man hadn't left. He was there.

Someplace.

My eyes caught a movement in front of me and my head whipped around to look in that direction. There was the man, dressed in the same old corduroy jacket and slacks but his face was different. I was standing up straight and staring at him, trying desperately to distinguish between shadow and reality, when he started to walk toward me. He was about twenty feet away and each slow stride brought him a few feet closer. Then I noticed what was different in his face. His nose was growing, getting wider and longer every second I watched and his mouth, twisted out of shape beforehand, was getting smaller. I stared at him, not quite believing what was happening, and watched as he changed from a man to a beast. To this day I can't quite place what he transformed into. All that I can say is that nobody had ever seen it before.

When he was about five feet away from me my hypnosis broke and I realized what was happening. All that separated the two of us was the kid. I honestly did not know why I was outside of my house at so late of an hour, let alone with someone, or something that I had never met before. I was spotted with rapidly drying blood by then and I knew that if I ran back to my place the police would be able to follow my footprints.

And what would I say then. What would I say when the police knocked on my door to question me? Would I just say that I was asleep all night or would I tell them the truth? I had been dragged into this crime now and I couldn't just walk away.

 

 

I couldn't just run away now. I didn't know what to do at all. That was when the thing started to speak. It had a low, droning voice, so much different than the high one of it's previous self, that at first I thought someone else had appeared.

"I picked you because you were old and aged. I picked you because you could take the blame for this. But now I see doubt in your eyes and you will have to die."

"No, oh God, no!" I shouted and turned toward home. My safe, warm home, where this thing wouldn't come. My feet slid a small ways on the gravelly asphalt but got their grip just before I would have gone crashing to the ground.

 

And to my death.

 

I could hear the animal howling with rage and was sure, no, positive that all the lights on my block would flash on, drowning my attacker in white light.

 

       But nothing happened. Nobody came out to see what was happening and nobody stumbled around in their nightgowns, trying to comfort awakened, crying babies. So I fled, feeling the breath of the beast on my neck and trying to stop the headache I was receiving from a massive overdose of adrenaline. I could see the lights on in my house and I could see in through my glass picture window. There was my rocking chair sitting beside the table that had held my Pall Mall's for the past twelve years, and I knew that I would never see them again. My heart pumped blood faster and faster as I streaked through the night. I was right beside my house when I stopped running, forcing myself to look behind me. There, under a streetlamp was the kid who had started all of this, drying and shriveled in the light. I didn't feel for him, not at all. And there was no sign of the man, if I can call him that.

Then I opened my door and stepped inside, thanking God when I felt my feet push into the plush carpet. I took off my shoes and went to sleep on that carpet, drifting away almost instantaneously. I dreamt dark, morbid dreams. Thoughts that will never come back to me, no matter how hard I try; Even if I care to retrieve them.

I woke up later that morning, seeing lights reflect off of the glass above my head. My body ached but why I couldn't place. All that had happened the night before was drifting into my subconscious like a really good dream does. I could hear voices and so I looked outside, lifting up carefully, and saw a dozen or more police cars lined up outside my house, like pick-up sticks dropped randomly to the ground.

There was a large gathering around the signpost and the press was flocking on the sidewalks with cameras and tape recorders.

The knock on my door was unexpected and made me jump in surprise. Three brisk raps. Short and bitter.

I stumbled over to the entrance and slowly opened the door, now totally expecting the two policemen that quickly stepped inside. One of them, who was short and fat, bent over and picked up my shoes. He turned them over and examined the soles, his face creasing as he did so. The other one took one look at me and nodded, as if to himself, before saying 'You'd better come with us' sonny."

I scolded myself then and I'll scold myself now for forgetting to clean my shoes. There was still blood caked all over them and my clothes when the police came to my door that warm November night, fourteen years ago.

But now, as I lay these sheets of old, tattered notebook paper under my mattress, I can hear the voice of a long overdue heaven beckoning me. You see I'm seventy-eight and I don't have anything to live for after that body took away my freedom fourteen years ago. I have no family and my only friends are the rats, scurrying across this cement floor during the night. I can hear the bell ringing, calling the prisoners to lunch but I will not go.

Last night I woke up and saw someone outside of my cell. Its face was short and speckled with whiskers but in the light from down the hall I caught a glimpse of some long claws on the ends of his fingers. And it was growling softly, like a rabid dog.

And if that thing is what I think it is, I won't be alive tomorrow. It will find a way to get through those bars.

And hopefully I will be dead before you read this.